Causalities
by paganpunk2
Summary: Seven short stories based on Aristotle's statement that "all human actions have one or more of these seven causes: chance, nature, compulsion, habit, reason, passion, and desire." T for language and references to kid-unfriendly topics in later chapters.
1. Chance

**Author's Note: This set of seven short stories will be based off a quote from Aristotle that reads: "All human actions have one or more of these seven causes: chance, nature, compulsion, habit, reason, passion, and desire." They will mostly focus on Dick and Bruce, although one or more of the other Robins may make an appearance in a later chapter.**

**This first piece, 'Chance,' is a response to a request from firstar28 for a short prequel to my story 'Reconciliation,' and details the fight that leads up to the opening of that story. Being a prequel, no knowledge of 'Reconciliation' is strictly necessary for understanding the story.**

**Happy reading!**

* * *

It was pure luck that Batman was near the docks when gunfire broke out. He certainly hadn't planned on being in the riverine quarter of the city tonight; his evening had hinged on preventing a bank heist downtown and listening in on a midnight meeting between two of Gotham's worst sex traffickers. The burglary had been stopped before it started, however, when the thieves were pulled over for a broken taillight and then taken into custody once it was discovered that their vehicle was stolen. His contact in the red light district had informed him a short while later that the business discussion was being postponed, as one of the participants had a bad case of food poisoning. Those random occurrences had given him time to do one of his usual circuits, albeit at a later hour than usual.

Consequently, he was hunkered down on a rooftop watching the fronts of three buildings that had recently been home to a large counterfeiting ring when shots pierced the silence a few blocks over. He swung towards them immediately, trying to predict what he was walking into. _There are at least four or five different weapons going off,_ his ears determined. _Gang scuffle, maybe? _His boots hit tin as he landed some fifteen feet above the action. _…A shipment of some sort,_ he deduced as his eyes swept the alley and found a half-unloaded truck, several men on the ground around it. _No blood,_ he frowned. _They weren't shot. But then what…?_

His answer came suddenly in the form of a black-and-blue blur that twisted and flipped through the guards that were still standing. They dropped to the pavement, unconscious, as he seemed to dance between them. _Nightwing,_ the man on the roof thought, able to recognize the former Robin's style anywhere. He prepared to leap down – _this is __my__ city, he should have called in once he crossed the bridge -_ then hesitated. _…No,_ another, warmer part of him spoke up._ That's part of what got us to this point, was my inability to stand back and let him do what he does so well. He's avoided Gotham for this long; it makes no sense to think that he's trying to establish a foothold now. I'm not interfering unless it becomes necessary._

Superman had kept him somewhat in the loop regarding the whereabouts and activities of his son, but he hadn't seen him up close and in action since their last big fight three years earlier. As he watched, he couldn't help but be impressed. _…He's gotten even better,_ he noted. _I didn't really think that was possible, but…whoa, __that__ was a hell of a move. Damn, Dick, have you been doing anything other than training? _The police work that he was aware the younger man had engaged himself in hardly counted, being in the cowled man's mind a mere extension of a good vigilante's nightly duties. _Trust you to find a way to do what you love best day __and__ night,_ the corner of his mouth twitched proudly. _Clever boy._

The alley went quiet. Below, Nightwing slowly rose from his defensive crouch, scanning the buildings from behind blank white lenses. _For what, though?_ Batman wondered. _For more gunmen, or for me? He'd be a fool not to expect me to show up after all that noise, and he's anything but that._ His position on the roof made him invisible to anyone below who wasn't pointing a spotlight straight at him, but he knew that wouldn't matter. Sure enough, the masked face – familiar, _painfully_ familiar, and yet different than he remembered it – stopped suddenly, staring upwards in his direction. _…I suppose this had to happen sometime,_ he grimaced, preparing to leap down. _I just hope he has a good reason for being here unannounced._

Half a second before he launched himself off of the building, several windows broke below him. A door at the base of the edifice on which he stood let a long rectangle of light into the street, and the alley was suddenly a very dangerous place to be as a hailstorm of bullets cut through it. The fact that the cowled man was in costume wasn't enough to keep a fearful gasp from escaping his lips as the figure being targeted melted back into the shadows. _Dick…were you hit?_ He peered downward, and thought he could pick up a small splash of blood on the concrete. _Bastards. _

He hesitated for a moment, considering his options. _I want these goons,_ he growled. _…But if he's hurt, he's a long way from home._ Nightwing's nesting grounds, he knew, were on the far side of Bludhaven, further from their current location than even the cave was. _They've still got plenty to keep them busy,_ he judged as a few men braved the street, guns still clenched in their fists, to shove their fallen comrades out of the way and continue offloading. _There's time to come back._ If the younger vigilante had been too badly injured, on the other hand, he could bleed out in minutes. Unwilling to think about that possibility, Batman began to move around the edge of the open road, not wanting to risk swinging overhead and giving his presence away before he verified that his son wasn't in a desperate situation.

_You didn't go far,_ he thought as he searched. _Either you're too hurt to have gained much distance, or you're working on your next assault. I know you didn't run; you were trained better than that._ A half a block away, he located him behind a dumpster, leaning against the filthy metal with a hand pressed to his side and his eyes closed. Dropping silently to the pavement a few feet away, he paused for a moment, drinking him in.

_You're taller than you were when you left. Broader, too, although not by much. I swear you're never going to grow out of being skinny…it doesn't seem to matter how much work you do, you just aren't built for bulk. Where did you get that costume? It suits you…_

"You done staring?" Nightwing asked without opening his eyes, a grin cracking his face below his mask.

"…I'm not _staring_."

"Sure," he agreed good-naturedly, straightening with a slight wince. "Sorry about the intrusion. It was unavoidable." _Please don't get angry. I was just trying to protect you. I'm so sick of us being mad at each other, please don't use this to start another fight…_

"Understood," the cowl inclined in a slight nod. "I'll want details later."

"…Later?" he asked slowly. "You mean…you want to talk as _people_?" _Say yes. Please say yes. I've missed you so much, Bruce…_

_Do __you__ want to…talk as people?_ He swallowed hard. _Because I…god, I missed you, son._ "…Later," he reiterated with less harshness than would normally have accompanied his having to draw attention back to a mission. "You're injured."

"It's nothing," he waved off. "A couple of grazes. Those guys are terrible shots." He kept his palm tight against his torso just above his hip, hoping that it would mask the fact that there was a bit more than a scrape beneath it.

_Don't you have armor? That's foolish, Dick. We're going to have to have a talk about that. _He peered secretly at the area being held. _Is it just a trick of the light, or is the material darker there? That blood had to come from somewhere. You have a bad penchant for downplaying your wounds, you always have. I wish I could break you of it, but I get the feeling you learned it from me, so I suppose that isn't too likely._ _What could possibly have been so important as to draw you across the bridge and into a fight with what must have been more than twenty men total? _"Do you have a plan?" he asked instead.

"…Are you offering to help me?"

"Your case, my territory, Nightwing." _It's not an offer,_ his tone made clear. _My presence is compulsory._

"…Right." He looked away for a moment. "I wasn't expecting those guys in the windows," he admitted slowly. "I thought I'd gotten everyone. There were certainly enough down for that to be a reasonable assumption." He sighed. "Did you see any roof access while you were up top?"

Batman recalled the details of the top of the building. "Yes."

"Well, you take the high road, I'll take the low. Normally I'd say it should be the other way around," he joked a little bitterly, "but if I drip on someone it'll give me away, so…sound good?"

"It's acceptable." _It's what I would have done,_ he confessed to himself. "Are you sure you can make it?" he asked a second later when Nightwing stepped away from the dumpster with a little hiss.

"I'm not a child," he shot back. They stared at one another for a long moment before the younger shook his head. "…Let's go." _I hope we still fight together better than we talk,_ he thought dourly as the cowled man rose back into the darkness that cloaked the rooftops. _Otherwise, we're both in trouble. Why can't you realize that I can do this? Hell, I've __been__ doing it, by myself, for three years. Stop treating me like I'm nine._

Drawing up to the edge of the alleyway, he crouched painfully and studied the scene. _There are way too many guys here. I mean, I know the only guys who will run armor-piercers into Gotham are based out of Bludhaven, so the prices on this side of the river are even higher than at home, but this is ridiculous. I took out at least a dozen guys, and there's another six-pack working the truck right now. Including that asshole driver,_ his eyes narrowed as he spotted the man who had given him his worse injury of the night. This was far from the gunrunner's first encounter with Nightwing, who had been trying to nab him for three months. _You're good at hanging your buddies out to dry when things get ugly, but you're not getting away tonight,_ he smirked wickedly in the shadows. _I've got backup. Or…I'm backing him up. Well, whatever; it'll be twice as hard for you to run, that's what matters._

He saw Batman disappear over the peak of the roof, and decided about fifteen more seconds should be sufficient. _Three…two…one!_ he counted down before tumbling forward from his hiding place. His side screamed at him as he folded into a roll to avoid a spattering of bullets and then kicked himself upright to disarm two men. The half-dozen outside joined their compatriots on the cool pavement just as a girlish scream emitted from the busted-out windows of the warehouse. _What kind of fun do you have waiting for me inside?_ he thought joyfully, adrenaline allowing him to ignore the wetness now coursing down his thigh in rivulets.

The door was much too obvious, so he took a running start and flipped forwards, letting his momentum carry him through one of the already pane-free windows. Landing on his feet inside, he stumbled only slightly, then took in the glorious scene before him; a single black-clad man, using his fists to argue with what was easily fifteen of Gotham's most average street toughs. _Excellent._ He didn't call out as he ran forward, but Batman seemed to sense his approach and dropped down just long enough for his back to serve as a springboard for Nightwing to tackle a group of three. The younger man laughed delightedly as he smashed into them. _Just like it used to be._

They found themselves back to back a few seconds later as they faced the last four, and in that moment each could almost believe that no foul words had ever passed between them. Before the daydream could settle in, they split, and two breaths later the fight was over. The pair stood for a minute, panting. "…Fun times," Nightwing said approvingly as they surveyed the carnage. "Although I'll bet the local precinct won't be too happy that they have to process thirty slobs. On the night shift, too," he chuckled. "Ow." His smile turned into a deep frown as his amusement jostled his side. "…Oh," he said faintly, looking down to find a small puddle growing beside his boot. "Shit. I'm fine," he insisted as the only other conscious person in the building swept forwards. "It looks worse than it is."

"…Alfred will be the judge of that," he said firmly, his stomach twisting wretchedly as he saw the wound in good lighting. _We shouldn't have gone after them. You should have told me it was that bad, Dick. _

"I can make it home, Batman," he crossed his arms, swaying slightly as he put up a nominal fight for his independence. _But take me to the cave anyway. Please. That's where I want to be, really, I just…I just need you to recognize that I don't __need__ to be there in order to do my job._

…_But that's…that's where we're going._ While he wasn't surprised that his son had begun calling somewhere other than the manor 'home' after three years of estrangement, hearing him actually say as much caused a knife of despair to slip between his ribs. _Don't argue. Please. Come with me._ "You don't have to stay," he tried to sound neutral, "but you could use medical attention. Besides, you owe me details on why you're in Gotham to begin with." He pressed a concealed button on his utility belt as he spoke, calling the car to their location.

_I don't 'have' to stay?_ his eyes widened slightly behind his mask as the cowled man guided him outside, keeping close but managing to refrain from actually taking his elbow. _…Does that mean that I __could__, if I wanted to? _"Well…okay," he tried to sound grudging. _God, I hope Alfred has fresh cookies…and that Bruce and I can keep from fighting long enough for me to have one. I don't want to fight any more, _he stressed to himself. _And not just because it cuts into post-patrol snacking._

He stopped for a second after they crossed the threshold, and now a gauntleted hand couldn't refrain from wrapping around his arm. "…Nightwing?"

"_Fuck._ The driver's gone!" he exclaimed, pulling away and storming over to where he'd seen the man fall. "That son of a bitch!" He slammed his fist into the side of the truck. "I've been after him for _three months_, and he flew the coop _again_! He's probably on his way back to Bludhaven right now to figure out his next shipment." He shook his head angrily, then regretted it when the world spun. "…Whoa."

"In the car," Batman said sharply, half-carrying him down the alley. "Don't argue. You're bleeding." _Everywhere,_ a mildly panicked voice added. Once they were both seated and the doors had closed, he leaned over and began to pack the injury with gauze. _I never should have let you fight like this. But then,_ he realized with a start, _it wasn't really my choice, was it? If I hadn't shown up, you still would have gone in, but you probably wouldn't have come out. Jesus, Dick. _

"…Bet that slimy bastard uses a lot fewer guys next time," the wounded man postulated. "Especially if he saw you and figures that the size of this operation is what gave him away. He doesn't know I tailed him across the bridge, I don't think. Just…couldn't get close enough in a safe place…" he trailed off, eyelids drooping.

"Stay awake," the black-clad man ordered as the auto-navigation sped them through the dark.

"I want that gunrunner, Bruce," he whispered, face pinching.

"…We'll get him," he swallowed the lump that formed in his throat as he heard his name spoken in that oft-wished-for voice. _Together, if I'm lucky._


	2. Passion

**Author's Note: Okay, so these stories are not going to go in order of the quote, but all seven will be covered. This story goes dark and then ends fluffy. It was inspired partly by a conversation with AJCrane regarding canon fights between Bruce and Dick and how in several of those instances Dick ends up getting used by someone he trusted. The other big piece of inspiration for this was Ellie Goulding's song 'Figure 8.' If you have not heard this song, I highly recommend listening to it before, during, and/or after reading this story. **

**In other news, I promise the next chapter will be something fun! Happy reading.**

Her name was Susanna, and Dick Grayson knew from the moment he laid eyes on her that she was trouble. _But I've been in trouble before,_ he thought, sending a grin in her direction. _…Kind of like to be again, if that's what trouble looks like in the form of a woman._

Someday he would tell his own son to stay as far from girls like Susanna as he could. That night, though, with bad music pounding in his ears and the heat of bodies surrounding him, all he knew was that his new city had a resident angel.

There was no one to stop him, no one to hold him back and make him see that she was the best lesson and the worst experience he would ever have in his love life. Bruce had rejected him, stripping him of Robin and thus, it felt to him at least, of his identity; Clark was distant, cautious of the wrath he would be inviting if he seemed to be stepping into the billionaire's shoes; Wally and Roy were busy with their own problems. The last time he'd had such a clean break, he'd been scooped up by a father. This time, he hoped to have his shattered life pieced back together by a lover.

Susanna was flirty, liked to curse, and wore heavy eye makeup. She smoked cigarettes, she offered frequently to buy him alcohol, and there was nothing innocent in the least about the way she made love. Bruce would have loathed her; Dick fell in love with her.

She obliged his passion, seeing in the boy – and he was still that in her eyes, which were a full decade more weathered than his own – a chance to live well for a while. She adored the attention her pretty little beau lavished on her, luxuriated in the gifts he gave her constantly, and smiled amusedly at his youthful eagerness in the bedroom. He seemed to have a lot of double shifts, but what did she know about police work? The money was good, much better than it had been with the deadbeats she'd leeched from prior, and god only knew the streets of Bludhaven needed all the help they could get. "Don't get yourself killed out there," she wished him sincerely before his patrols. _If you die, I'm out on my ass again,_ she never added to anyone but herself.

Despite his near-worship of the woman who had moved in with him at the drop of a hat, he hid his past as Robin and his present as Nightwing from her. That, he would realize later, should have been his first clue. If he didn't trust her with his greatest secret, how could he trust her with his heart? She knew he was the former – he always insisted on that word – ward of Bruce Wayne, and he told her once that his trust fund had been left intact and accessible after his departure from home. She asked if they could use it; he refused. No matter how desperately he wanted to cover her model-quality body with all the things the man who had raised him would have had she been _his_ girl, Dick wouldn't touch that money. It was, in essence, a gift from Bruce, and at that point in his life he wanted nothing to do with it. His steadfastness frustrated her constantly empty purse to no end, and the account's off-limits status was the source of their earliest fights.

The first time she vanished without warning, he panicked. They hadn't quarreled in two days, she'd just gotten her weekly allowance from him, and there was no sign of a struggle. _…So where __is__ she? _He left messages and sent texts, all desperate, and finally received a vague answer, a promise to be back soon, and a kissy emoticon. Clouds closed in over his head as he noted how empty his life was when she was gone. The bed, the apartment, the whole damn city; they were all too big without her at his side.

Had he gone out and attempted to meet other girls, or even just to make a friend, during that or any of her subsequent 'vacations,' he might have realized that he felt void during her more and more frequent absences because she had become the only person in his life. His range of focus, once stretching west to California and up through the atmosphere to the Watchtower, had shrunk down to the few square miles that made up central Bludhaven. His contacts list withered as he made no attempts to reconnect with those he had bickered with or to establish new social bonds. His every effort was directed at one of three things; night work, Susanna, and the BPD. To his shame, the first and second items even switched places in importance on occasion.

She played him like the infatuated fool he was. It was pathetic, she scoffed to her other lovers, how he couldn't seem to get over his break with his past benefactor. It worked to her advantage, she would shrug after making that observation; all she need do was put on a sympathetic face for a couple of hours and toss him a pity fuck, and he was putty in her hands for the next week. She discovered early on that 'I love you' was a phrase he had almost never heard since the deaths of his parents, and as a result it worked like magic when it fell from her lips. The best part was that he'd been deprived of that spoken sentiment for so long that it didn't seem to lose its power to sway him no matter how often she used it. Knowing that, she abused her privilege, wheedling out money and forgiveness in equal parts and stringing him along just a little longer each time.

Dick Grayson's heart was blind to his lover's deceptions; fortunately the part of him that had been forged in logic and suspicion was not, although it, too, had trouble seeing through the hormonal fog that she inspired. In his gut he was aware that she slept with other men, although he didn't know she did it for money. He knew she had dabbled in party drugs before they met, but she kept the occasional dealing she still did out of his line of sight by working from their apartment while he was on one of his many 'doubles.' She told him about the abortion she'd had at seventeen, but she never breathed a word about the five she'd had since, including one that might well have been his child.

Her disappearances became so frequent that he stopped worrying when he found her ragged suitcase gone from the closet, instead sinking straight into depressions that he took out on the miscreants of Bludhaven until she returned. Eight months into their tumultuous liaison, he decided that enough was enough, and vowed to stand up to her when she reappeared. He tried, he honestly tried, but the claws she had in him weren't ready to retract yet, and a teary promise to change, to do better, to try harder because she _loved_ him, was all it took for him to cave.

And thus it went for another half year. _It isn't her fault_, he told himself when she lashed out at him. _She had a bad childhood,_ he excused when he caught her cheating on him in their own bed. _She loves me. I love her. Love hurts sometimes. It isn't her fault. She's a good person inside. She loves me. She __says__ she loves me; it's the ones who never say it that you have to watch out for. I need her. She needs me. All we have is each other. She promised to stay, to stop running away, to stop smoking. She promised to stay forever. She loves me. She __promised__ that she loves me._

Susanna had played her game enough times to know to get out while the getting was good. _ I could retrace this same path with him, over and over again, for probably another year at least,_ she mused one night as she stroked his hair on the couch. She had something better lined up, though, a recent divorcee with far greater cash reserves than Dick could give her to burn through without dipping into his trust money. _Little twerp,_ she loathed him on that reserve. _…I could threaten to leave him if he doesn't let me into it,_ she considered. _But he's been so firm on that that it could too easily backfire, and frankly I'm sick of playing the junior leagues. Besides, once the trust money is gone I'd have to go back to living on his police salary. …No. I've got Ivan waiting in the wings. I'll just go. _

Coming home the next day to find her suitcase gone again was, as always, like taking a punch to the gut. Finding a note on his pillow addressed in her scrawly handwriting, however, was like having a heart attack.

_ Dick-_

_ It's been fun, doll. You're the person I've stayed with the longest, and I think you loved me the best, and the most, out of everyone. If you were just a little older and made better money, maybe we could have gone on another year, or something. Who knows, right? Could be we'll run into each other again somewhere down the line. _

_ Anyway, don't come after me, okay? It would just make things awkward with my new guy. You taught me a lot about people; believe me, I'll use that knowledge. So thanks for the good times, and all the pretties. _

_ Hugs and kisses,_

_ Susanna_

_PS – You should probably get yourself tested for…well, for everything. Just in case, you know? It's really sad the way people will lie right to your face these days about stuff like that. XOXO_

Consumed with staring hopelessly back and forth between her letter and the engagement ring he'd bought an hour before he first read it, he barely left the bed for three days, skipping patrol entirely and calling out sick from work. He'd pulled from his trust account to purchase the four-carat behemoth that was the only bright thing in the room after her departure; eventually he would realize that his final reserve had broken because he sensed her pulling away from him and couldn't stand it, but for the first forty-eight hours all he couldn't even think. He buried his face in her pillow, in the few clothes she'd left behind, in _anything_ that might still bear a trace of her scent, having to work harder with each inhalation as his tears dampened her perfume. It wasn't enough. He knew, now, how badly he'd been used, and could finally begin to sense how much she had cost him, but even so her fingers were still sunk into his soul.

The thought of suicide crossed his mind, but never really coalesced. _Too weak to live without her, and too weak to do anything about it,_ he cursed every morning, glaring at himself in the bathroom mirror as he brushed his teeth. Unable to cure himself and with no friends or family he felt he could turn to, he threw himself into his work, hoping that some lucky street thug or one of his villainous night nemeses would prove up to the task of releasing him from the cruel, dark reality her note had woken him up to.

No matter how much he might have wished for death, though, he was too naturally talented and a bit too lucky for it to come at the hands of another. Forced to survive, he began to claw his way back to living. During fits of heartbroken rage over the next few months he threw out more and more of her; pictures, souvenirs she'd brought home from her trips without him, bank statements that would have shown just how much of his hard work had been funneled directly into her frivolities. Slowly – oh, so _very_ slowly – the pain began to fade.

Six months after her abrupt departure found him packing for a move to another precinct, part of a promotion he'd earned with a brazenly ballsy assault during his period of attempted self-destruction. Stacking papers into a box, he uncovered a photo that had been missed during his purges, a shot taken just after they'd first met. _…We look happy_. He glanced at the garbage can, then shook his head. _Not this one, _he determined, and it was placed reverentially in his wallet, tucked beside the only note she'd ever left him.

Attitudes were less hard at his new station than they had been at his previous one, and he quickly had several different parties questing after his romantic attentions. He denied them all with a kind smile. Any one of them would have been a thousand times healthier than Susanna, but none of them _were_ her, and that was the problem. He could now go several hours at a stretch without thinking about her, but he still carried an ardent flame that outshone every other light that approached. He scanned faces incessantly when he was on patrols in the seedy neighborhoods she had frequented, always hoping. He never saw her, but that didn't stop him from searching, night and day, just in case.

More time passed. The heat of his passion cooled a bit as he finally made a few friends among his fellow officers, people who valued qualities in him that he had forgotten he had. Wally sent him an uncharacteristically thoughtful email out of the blue, and his contact with the wider world of crusaders for justice was rekindled. The world had a bit of sun in it again, and the clouds were more scattered every time he stopped to consider them. Dick came to accept his ex-lover's crimes against him, both those he knew about and the ones he knew he would never have the details of. Despite being acutely aware of how low she had dragged him, though, coals still flared in the pit of his stomach when he thought about her, and her picture stayed in his wallet.

And then, finally, came the day when he and Bruce were reconciled. They aired a lot of laundry over those first few weeks, and caught each other up on a million missed moments, but Dick kept Susanna to himself. _He'll just be disappointed, or worse yet, go back to thinking of me as a child for letting her do what she did for so long, _he thought._ No. It's better that he doesn't know about her. _

Two months after their first tearful apologies, Nightwing parked his motorcycle in the cave and walked to the counter, where Bruce had said he'd leave that night's case file for him on the off chance that he arrived while the older man was suiting up. It had been a good day; he'd been part of a major drug bust, the warm spring breeze had teased him all the way from Bludhaven, and he was spending the entire weekend in Gotham, sleeping in his childhood bed and noshing on Alfred's cooking. Bouncing on the balls of his feet and humming lightly, he flipped open the folder.

_Susanna._ _No._

He barely made it to a chair before his knees gave out, his fingers flexing convulsively and crumpling the edges of the documents Batman had amassed. The crime scene photos were gruesome; she and the other dismembered victim, a man that he could only guess was her latest boyfriend, had clearly been intended to serve as warnings for someone else. After a long, disbelieving moment, the file slipped to the floor, unbound papers going everywhere as he buried his face in his hands.

"It's not pretty," the black-clad but uncowled figure commented as he came around the corner. _…What the hell?_ he jerked to a stop, taking in the tableau before him. "…Dick?" Moving to kneel in front of him, he shook him gently. "Dick, talk to me," he pushed, stunned. He'd heard his son arrive, and had been able to tell from the sound of his step that he was in a good mood. Apparently the mere second he had turned his attention away had been too long, because the man in front of him now was not the same one who had walked jauntily in a few minutes before. _What's wrong? What's going on? The pictures are ugly, but he's seen far worse, so why this reaction? Dick?_

_Susanna. Why? What did you get yourself into?_ Nightwing cried silently as warm palms landed on his shoulders. Bruce spoke his name again, voice beginning to sound fearful, but he just shook his head. _No. You were too beautiful to die. Not…not like that. You didn't deserve that. _ "…She was mine." He trembled, holding everything back. _If she hadn't left…if I'd just given in on the money…if I'd loved her better…she'd be alive._

Those three words could mean one or more of many things, and Bruce had no way of knowing which applied. _Friend? Co-worker? No, he said she was 'his'…a lover, maybe?_ He frowned, recalling the victim profiles. _Surely not, she_ _was half again his age…_ "Son, you've got to explain this to me. I don't understand what's going on. Please." _I can't stand seeing you like this. I've __never__ seen you like this. Who was this woman to you?_ "Please, Dick, tell me what's going on."

"…I can't," he gasped. _It's too much. To recall it all, now…to hate her and love her at the same time, when she's dead…no._

"You're scaring the hell out of me, chum," he moved his hands up to cup his soaked cheeks. _Why does it feel like you're falling away from me? Stop. Stop it. __Talk to me__._ An idea crossed his mind, and he rose suddenly, stalking back into the costumes and returning immediately with a small bottle of spirit gum solvent. In seconds he had removed the younger vigilante's mask, setting it aside on the counter. "Look at me." He regretted his request the instant it was fulfilled. _Your eyes have only been that anguished once before._ "…Oh, god, baby, what is it?" he queried desperately.

Dick threw himself forward into his surrogate father's arms, sobs breaking loose. There was no telling how long it was before he could begin to form coherent words, but once he figured out the secret of speech again it all poured out. He shared everything he knew, everything he suspected, everything he had hoped and feared and dreamed and despised during his and Susanna's time together. Now that she was the one in pieces, there was no illusion left to fear breaking with an admission, and he confessed it all.

Bruce was sick to his stomach from word one. _That bitch. That complete __whore__._ He'd spent the past two nights investigating the victims, trying to determine what had led to their almost ritualistic-looking murders, and if he had learned anything about the woman named Susanna it was that she was _not_ the kind of person he wanted his son associating with. _She saw a boy with a kind, forgiving heart, and she tore him to pieces,_ he keened, rocking the shaking body that he couldn't seem to release his hold on. _She ripped him up, then left him to put himself back together._ "…Why?" he asked when the story seemed over. "Why did you let her do that to you, Dicky? _Why?"_

"…Because I loved her." _I still love her, in a way. I don't know why. _

"She was _hurting_ you. You just said so yourself."

"But…" He trailed off.

"But what?"

"But she said she loved me," he whispered hoarsely. "She…she _promised_…"

"She lied, chum. She lied." _If I could have said it, even just a few times, when you were younger, maybe you wouldn't have put yourself through all of this just to hear someone say three words to you, _he realized with a jolt. _But I didn't. I didn't, and now…this. Barring that, if I had called, or gone to see you, I would have known. I should have checked on you more instead of leaving you to stew and only watching from a distance, and only at night. If I hadn't driven you away, if I had treated you like my partner, I could have saved you from this._ "I'm sorry," he bowed his head, letting his tears fall into his son's hair. "I'm _so_ sorry."

"You didn't kill her," he answered quietly. _Susanna. I'm sorry. I should have been better to you._ "If I had just given her what she wanted…"

"No," Bruce cut him off. "You were the victim here, Dick, _not_ her. You have no guilt in this."

"…I just wanted to fix her, Bruce. I just…I just wanted her to see what she could be if someone gave her a chance. If someone loved her."

"It was a noble thought," he soothed. "And very _you_. But she already knew what she could be with someone who loved her; a successful con artist."

"There was more to her than that," he insisted. _…Wasn't there?_ It was already hard to remember anything but the pain and the passion.

_Don't argue. Just let him grieve. He knows better, he's just lost in the memories right now. _"…Well, you knew her far better than I did. I'll take your word for it." _My sweet, trusting boy. Do you understand now what I was trying to protect you from before, why I tried to hide certain ugly truths from you for as long as I could? I just wish you could have learned in a less visceral way…_ "I don't think you should help me with this case." _If you still love her, even just a little, it could be difficult for you to keep from exceeding our boundaries._

"I want to catch the bastards who did _this_," he growled, holding up a creased picture of her severed head. "…She hurt me, Bruce. She almost killed me, if I want to be truthful about it. But she didn't deserve this. I _owe_ her this."

"You owe her nothing," he rebutted. "…Dick, she took _everything_ from you. The only thing more you could possibly give her is yourself, and if you go after these men…can you guarantee that you won't go too far? That you won't destroy yourself in an attempt at revenge?"

"Why does it matter?" he hung his head.

_God damn you, you succubus. How dare you. How __dare__ you break him down to the point that he can even think about asking a question like that. _Bruce lifted his chin with two fingers. "…She's dead. She doesn't care about revenge, or justice, or any of it. Not anymore. But you're still alive, and you still do, and it's _very_ hard to see the line between right and wrong when you let yourself fall into the dark. Trust me on that."

"Batman seems to manage just fine," he retorted flatly.

"Batman has a light. It was a lot dimmer than it used to be these past few years," he answered quietly, "but it seems to have come back even stronger than it was before. Much stronger."

"…It doesn't sound very reliable." _Don't. Don't flatter me. I don't deserve it._

"It's the soundest light in the world," Bruce corrected him. "…And the only one Batman really trusts. It's only flaw," he pulled him close again, "is that sometimes it burns so brightly just trying to help that it almost puts itself out."

"And how do you keep it from doing that?"

"…You can't," he answered sadly. "All you can do is treasure it, and hope that those occasional flares won't be the last. But if you try to control it, you smother it. I learned that the hard way." His lips pressed a kiss against his temple. "I don't want to smother that light, Dick. But I don't want to see it burn itself out, either."

"…I can control myself, Bruce," he promised slowly. "I want them brought in because no one deserves to die like that. But…she's taken enough from me already. I won't lose control."

"…Then we'll go together." _I hope you're right, chum. You'll never forgive me if I have to restrain you to keep you from doing something you'd regret. _

"…Bruce?"

"Hmm?" As much as he hated the events that had gotten them here, he had missed the last bit of closeness that they seemed to have regained as a result. _This is what he's been hiding from me,_ he realized. _And no wonder. _

"…Why did I let her do that to me?"

"Well, you said it yourself, chum; you loved her. More than that, you thought she loved you, and…well, she figured out the magic words."

"…Yeah. She did," he sighed.

"Dick?" Blue eyes, brighter now that a good portion of the darkness had cleared from them, met his. _It's not what you deserve to hear, but it's close, and it's the best I can do._ "…I promise," he said solemnly.

He smiled, still aching but beginning to hear the hiss of a few final coals being put out deep in his heart. "…Thanks, dad."


	3. Compulsion

**Author's Note: Thanks to Hawthornbranch for the prompt on this piece. :D Happy reading!**

It was a rainy, boring Sunday, and Dick was sulking. A sneezing fit and a runny nose on Friday morning had caused him to be kept in from patrol all weekend despite his adamant protests of good health. As if that weren't enough, both Alfred and Bruce had been too preoccupied with other things over the last two days to spend much time with him. _And I have to go back to school tomorrow,_ he pouted as he dragged his feet along a back hallway. _This is so lame…_

He'd originally planned on going down to the cave after lunch and throwing himself around on the bars, but his guardian had forbidden him, stating that he needed quiet while he worked on a particularly troubling file. The boy had, of course, asked if he could help, but was brushed off with the excuse that it was an extremely nasty JLA case that had already had too many hands in it. He'd tried sharing his troubles with Alfred, but even that normally unflappable confidant was distracted and slightly irritable today. Exploring the parts of the manor that he rarely went to was the only thing the moping child had been able to think of to keep himself distracted after being all but chased out of the kitchen. _Nobody wants to be around me today,_ he thought miserably as he rounded a corner and came into familiar surroundings. _But I didn't do anything wrong, so why not?_

He stopped suddenly, his eyes narrowing as he peered at a sliver of light that shone between the nearest door and its frame. _That goes to Alfred's rooms, _he recalled from more than one occasion of needing something in the middle of the night and being unable to wake Bruce from a patrol-weary slumber. _But it's usually shut. So why…? Huh._ Crossing his arms, he frowned at the trace of open air that had drawn his attention. _…I've never been in there. I'll bet he's got all sorts of cool stuff to look at…_ His hand reached for the lacquered barrier, then stopped. _No! That's his private space!_ The limb fell back to his side. _But he left it open…when I don't want people in __my__ room, I leave the door shut. So maybe it's okay if I go in._

Beginning to feel silly for glaring at the wall, Dick made a decision. _The door's open, and I'm sooooo bored…I'm going in. Alfred won't mind, so long as I don't touch anything._ Determined but still nervous, he pushed the door open with one finger, glanced down the hallway to make sure he was unobserved, and then slipped inside. _Whew,_ he breathed a sigh of relief once he was out of sight. As his eyes took in the room, they widened. ..._Whoa. This place is amazing!_

The front room featured the same fifteen-foot ceiling as the rest of the manor's first floor. Heavy wooden shelves stretched all the way up to it on three sides, bearing a plenitude of old books and various knick-knacks. The furnishings looked as if they had been culled from elsewhere in the house, but they were artfully arranged, and as he recognized shapes but not the fabric molded to them Dick decided that the pieces had been revived by Alfred's skilled upholstery needles. _Neat._

A large, rolling green landscape hung over the fireplace that dominated the fourth wall, drawing his gaze. _That's pretty. It looks like England; I can see why he'd want that in here._ _Maybe it's kind of like my Haly's poster, something to remind him of where he came from._ The small signature in the lower left caught his eye, and as he made it out a gasp escaped him. _'Martha Wayne?' Wait, Bruce's __mom__ painted that?_ Shocked, he took a step backwards, wanting to appreciate the work as a whole. _…She was good,_ he decided. _I mean, I'm sure she just painted for fun, but I'll bet she could have sold her stuff if she wanted to. Huh. I wonder if Bruce can paint, or draw, or something like that? He probably could, if he tried. _

His compunctions about touching eased as he grew more comfortable in the surroundings that were so _Alfred_ that it almost seemed as if the man were present with him. Moving on from the fireplace, he ran his fingers lightly along the dustless shelves, caressing the wood grain. _…That's kind of weird,_ he wrinkled his nose as he examined the books that lined most of the room. _Why are there two copies of everything? _Indeed, the works alternated, used sandwiched between new and vice versa on every shelf. Intrigued, he withdrew both a battered and a publisher-fresh copy of '_The Secret Garden'_ and opened the former. The butler's familiar scrawl filled the margins, little jottings made over a number of read-throughs as different things struck him about the story. Bemused, Dick flipped through it to find that every page was filled. _…Did that one say 'buy milk?' Weird._ He stopped and tried to find it again, but the strange note was lost.

_So…he has two copies of everything,_ he pondered, replacing the books on their shelf. _One for writing in as he reads, and the other…why the other? He must still read the books after he's made notes in them, because there were, like, four different inks I saw just now._ Remembering that this was Alfred he was dealing with, he grinned. _He likes to have a pristine version on hand, just in case. None of the books he's lent me have had writing in them; I'll bet he keeps the new copies partly for handing out to people and partly because he's just plain fastidious. Besides, it's not like he doesn't have room for two of everything in here…_

The non-literary items on the shelves drew him in next. Old globes, strange carvings, and large chunks of interesting rock bookended rows of reading material that ranged from fiction to history to survival manuals. A few photos – none, he noted, bearing images of people – resided in heavy frames that looked suitable for braining someone with. _Bet that's why he likes them,_ he smirked. _Never know what you'll have to turn into a weapon without notice, Bruce always says, and somehow I don't think 'The Secret Garden' would take out an assailant unless you threw it really, really hard._

He could have spent hours examining everything in that room, but he knew better than to linger too long in an area of the house he didn't technically have permission to be in. _I don't even have time to see what's up higher,_ he thought regretfully, glancing at the shelves far over his head. There was a ladder on rollers to service the upper reaches, and had that been absent he could have just scaled the wall, but there was also another room to investigate. _And I'll bet the best stuff's in there,_ he deemed, turning his back on the books.

The second door had been left cracked in the same way as the first, and this time he hesitated for only a second before pushing it open. _The inner sanctum,_ he breathed giddily. If the front parlor was an extension of Alfred the butler, the bedroom was a manifestation of Alfred the man. Another painting hung directly across from the door, and while the style and signature matched that of the larger piece in the sitting room the subject was an ocean away. _…That's the manor,_ Dick recognized the house with a slight shock. _He has a picture of __here__ in his bedroom? Huh._

Now there were faces in the photographs scattered about, mostly those of people that the boy had no chance of recognizing. He nearly laughed out loud several times as he picked out younger versions of the Englishman, usually pictured with a group of several other men. _Friends?_ he wondered. _Brothers, maybe? No, they don't look alike at all, any of them. Could be other secret agenty-type people from way back in the day, I guess. They all __look__ like they could do that kind of work,_ he acknowledged, recognizing in their captured gazes a particular glint that both Alfred and Bruce possessed. _…Do I have that look, ever?_ he mused. _I really hope I do. Maybe if I don't, I'll get it someday, like when I'm grown up. _

The snapshots on the night stands were the most recent ones he saw, and to his surprise they focused exclusively on himself and Bruce. _…Wow, Alfred. That's…thanks,_ Dick thought, touched to see himself featured as prominently as his guardian. _That means a lot to me. Not that I can ever __tell__ you that, because I'm not really supposed to be in here,_ he considered guiltily, _but…it __does__ mean a lot._

More fascinating little items dotted the surfaces here, and if he'd had the time and been brazen enough to search he was sure he would have found more than one hidden space, all no doubt containing amazing things. As it was, though, he'd spent too long in the butler's abode. Just as he was preparing to leave he spotted a glass-topped box on the dresser, and he couldn't help but cross back over to check it out. What he found on display made his jaw drop. _Alfred, no way!_ His gaze devoured the array of ribbons and medals. _I mean, I knew you were awesome, but…holy knighthood. Wait…__is__ that what that one's for?_ He couldn't be sure, and made a mental note to look up everything he could about British military honors when he got back to his own room and the privacy of his computer. _Wow…_

Dazed, he floated back through the front room, barely remembering to check the hallway before he stepped into it. Leaving the door cracked just like he'd found it, he slipped back towards the main part of the house, casting a wistful glance over his shoulder just before he went around the corner. _That was __so__ cool, even if I totally shouldn't have done it…_

From his hiding spot at the end of the passageway, Alfred watched the boy's reflection retreat in the large mirror that hung where the path came to a T. _Very good, young sir,_ he nodded, pleased by his stealth and the attention he'd shown in putting the door back exactly the way he'd found it. He'd felt terrible earlier in the day when he realized that his sour mood had driven his younger charge from his presence. _If I'm less than pleasant due to the adverse weather and Master Wayne's wearisome case – which from what he's told me he's quite right to keep from the boy - he is no doubt feeling even gloomier,_ he'd chastised himself. _But a mere apology doesn't seem sufficient. I'm sure he's gone to wander the back corridors – that seems to have entertained him on similar occasions in the past, at least – and if that's so, I believe I have an idea that may make his afternoon a bit cheerier._

After verifying that the boy hadn't holed up in his room as he was also wont to do on cold, wet days, the butler had proceeded to his own chambers. He'd eyeballed the doors with care, leaving them both cracked just enough to catch the precociously observant child's attention when he came through. _Not so obvious as to be suspicious, but evident enough that he won't miss it,_ he'd nodded, pleased with his handiwork. _Master Dick is certain to be amused by having a new area to explore._ After all, the same playful ruse had once worked wonders on the rainy-day attitude of a much younger Bruce, so why shouldn't it be equally as successful with the next generation?

He hadn't dared to stay and watch, since if he was seen anywhere nearby it might put the boy off entering the areas left open for him, but had instead returned to the kitchen to whip up a batch of double chocolate chip cookies. To his surprise, he found himself in a much better mood after setting up his little scheme, and had nearly begun to whistle as he stirred the batter. Once his baking was complete, he couldn't resist any longer, and had ventured back down the hall to see if the bait had been taken. For a moment he had been disappointed; the door looked unmoved. A quick peek inside, however, revealed the inner passage to be more slightly more ajar than he'd left it, and he'd pulled back quickly, suspecting that the area was still being mapped. Indeed, the boy had emerged with quite the transported look on his face just as Alfred was settling into his hiding spot to wait and watch him come out.

Now the butler made his way back to towards the kitchen, pleased as he considered the bounce that his younger charge's step seemed to have regained in the past two hours. "…Well, then, Master Dick," he addressed the child he found standing on the counter and going through the cupboards. "Looking for something?"

"Umm…I thought I smelled cookies?" he beamed hopefully. _Crud,_ he thought, jumping down to the floor. _Busted. _He'd been on his way up the stairs to research the medals he'd seen in Alfred's bedroom when the scent had caught his nose, pulling him back down. Finding the room empty, he'd mounted a search for the fresh baked goods, sensing something unusual in the delicious odor that had his mouth watering.

"You did indeed," the Englishman confirmed, opting to let the counter-climbing go without comment. "…But it's nearly four. Don't you think you ought to wait until after dinner?"

"Well…maybe just one? Like, a small one?" he pled. _Oh, good, he's not going to yell about my feet being on the counter. Whew. _Now that they were face to face, the little seed of guilt he felt for having invaded the butler's personal space was blooming; the last thing he wanted was for the man get upset with him for something else on top of it.

"…Oh, very well," Alfred conceded. He'd had no plans to say no, truthfully, but the boy was adorable when he begged, and at that moment the man couldn't quite resist the urge to see him do so. "I believe that I owe you an apology for my lack of attention to you this weekend. I hope you didn't feel _too_ neglected?"

"…No," he shook his head. "Well…yes, but…it's okay. You were busy." His eyes widened when he spotted what Alfred was removing from the jar. "…Wait, you made _double_ chocolate chip?" _So __that's__ why they smelled different._

"As you see, young sir," he nodded.

"Um…Why? I'm not complaining," he added quickly, "but…you _never_ make doubles. You always say it's too much sugar."

He paused. "…You know, I don't know why," he realized slowly. "That is rather odd, isn't it? But, in any case, they're made," he passed over a plate bearing two servings, "so they may as well be eaten, hmm?"

"Yup," Dick grinned. "'Never waste a good opportunity,' right?" he quoted him.

"Correct, young sir," the Englishman agreed as his eyes came to rest on the cookie jar. _Strange. I'm not usually one for sweets, but…they __do__ smell divine, if I say so myself._ "…Would you mind terribly if I join you?" he requested suddenly.

"_You're_ going to have a cookie?" the boy boggled. "I mean, sure!" he amended, just pleased to have someone spending time with him again.

"Thank you," he nodded gravely. "…Curious things, compulsions," he mused a moment later, contemplating the cookie in his hand. "They sometimes make one do things that are completely out of character."

"…Like bake double chocolate chip cookies and then pass out extra servings?" _…Or go into places we know we probably shouldn't, even if the door __is__ open?_

"Indeed. It's generally in everyone's favor to fight off the sudden, unpredictable desires that we all experience from time to time. But," he added, catching a little glint of self-indictment in the child's expression, "I don't think there was any harm done by our giving into a few today, do you? So long as we don't do so too regularly." And then he winked. _I'll not admit out loud to having tempted you with those doors, but I don't imagine that I'll need to in order for you to get my point. There's no reason to feel guilt, young sir. You've done nothing wrong._

Dick caught the twitch of an eyelid and swallowed hard. _He totally knows I was in his rooms,_ he realized. _…But he doesn't seem to mind. _"Nope," he beamed, understanding that his exploration had been noted, but wasn't resented. "I think I like this double chocolate chip cookie compulsion of yours," he stated, taking a big, relieved bite.

_Taking into account the success I seem to have achieved by giving into a few impulses this afternoon,_ he thought as he watched the now-happy boy across from him eat, _I can hardly disagree_. "…As do I, Master Dick," he smiled softly. "As do I."


	4. Nature

Stepping out of the building in which he'd just taken his SATs, Dick stretched and yawned, popping his jaw. _Well, that was pleasant,_ he thought sarcastically. He knew he'd done well on all three sections, but that didn't change the fact that he had spent the entire morning sitting in one place, unable to move for fear of being accused of cheating in the close quarters of the testing room. _They really ought to spread people out more for these things,_ he shook his head as he pulled his mobile out of his jacket. _Or at least not make it a five hour block of filling in bubbles and writing essays on lame topics. Ugh._

Bruce had dropped him off at the testing facility early that morning before going to put in a few weekend hours at the office. The billionaire had instructed him to call him for a pick up when he was done, but... _It wouldn't be much of a walk,_ Dick considered, able to see the behemoth Wayne Enterprises building from where he stood and well aware that it was only eighteen blocks away. _It's barely even a mile. I could probably __crawl__ there in less time than it would take him to finish what he's doing, get the car, and make it through all the lights._ A gentle spring breeze tempted him, playing with his hair. _Nope,_ he dropped his phone back into his pocket. _I'm walking. It's too nice of a day out, and I need to loosen up from that awful plastic thing they call a chair._

The business district of Gotham was always quiet on Saturdays, but today it seemed especially so. _It's the first really warm day we've had this year,_ Dick opined as he strolled leisurely down the street. _Everyone's probably gone out of town to enjoy the sun. Everyone except Bruce,_ he shook his head. _It's a miracle he hasn't worked himself into a heart attack with all the stuff he has going on all the time…but then I guess I'm not really one to judge, at least not so long as I'm juggling school, the team, __and__ Gotham duties._

It was pure reflex to glance down alleyways and drives as he passed them, and that was the only reason he noticed the crime taking place some ten blocks along his path. He read the situation expertly with a single look; two men, their backs to the street, had a young woman cornered and were issuing threats in low voices. _They must be armed, or she's a fool to have not called out for help,_ he cautioned himself as he turned in and drew silently up behind them.

There was a sturdy-looking piece of rebar lying on the concrete, and Dick scooped it up as he approached. _Better safe than sorry, I don't have any back-up. _A swift, well-placed swing took down the nearest mugger. _Strike one,_ the teen joked to himself, swiveling to direct his attention to the remaining man. When he got there, he found that the rather large pistol that had been pointed at the girl was now aimed at him, instead. Every muscle in his body tensed to leap away and circle around for a counterattack, but the criminal's words froze him.

"'Schoolboy pulls idiotic move, attacks career criminal in downtown, dies,'" the gunman sneered. "That's what the newspapers are gonna read tomorrow, kid. Bad luck for you."

'_Schoolboy?' Oh, shit._ He'd seen the girl in trouble and gone into Robin mode, but it was broad daylight on a Saturday afternoon; all he was at the moment was Dick Grayson. The avoidance maneuver he'd been about to perform was far too advanced to be explained away afterwards, and now he'd spent too long thinking about it anyway. _What'd you do, waste all of your brain power on that test? This was really stupid. Still, what was I supposed to do, keep walking?_ _There's no way I could have done that._ His lips tightened. _I'm just going to have to figure it out…here goes nothing._

The movies had it wrong, he and Wally commented all the time; for them, time never seemed to slow in the midst of a fight, no matter how cool of a move or clever of a plot was being executed. If anything, the action seemed to speed up, and all you could do was trust your muscles to react before your brain really caught up. Thinking too hard about exactly what you were doing was, in a melee situation at least, a good way to get yourself killed. _I can't be Robin on the outside,_ he realized as the mugger's finger began to tighten on the trigger, _but no one can see what I'm doing on the inside._

He acted without concentrating on anything other than not giving his alter ego away, throwing himself sideways and bringing the rebar down on the man's hand at the same time. There was a snap, two screams, and the deafening report of the gun. Something burned along the top of his forearm, and then he was tumbling across the concrete with far less than his usual grace. _Man, fighting as a civilian __sucks,_ he lamented as he popped his head up immediately to locate the assailant. _If I were in costume, these guys would have been down before they knew I was here. This would already be over. _Instead, he was now in a race with the enraged crook to see who could reach the handgun on the ground first.

Dick had much more distance to cover, and despite his broken wrist the injured mugger still had plenty of hustle as he scrambled for his weapon on his hands and knees. His good fingers were about to wrap around the grip when the girl he had been terrorizing stepped forward and kicked him in the side, giving a little grunt of effort as she did. _Oooh, he's going to feel that in the morning,_ the teen winced as the criminal fell over into a sprawl, once again dropping the pistol. _Now, to just get rid of __this__,_ he sent the firearm skittering down the alley with one foot as soon as he was close enough, _and pick __this__ back up,_ he reclaimed his now-bent metal cudgel. _…Okay. Now let's see who wants to play tough guy._

But both muggers were down, the girl's blow having knocked the wind completely out of the one who was still conscious. Keeping the man in his peripheral vision – _wish I had something to tie him up with…of all the morning to wear loafers_ - Dick glanced over at the would-be victim, who was already dialing the police. _…Whoa. Hel-lo,_ he thought appreciatively, suddenly twice as glad that he'd walked by the alley when he did. "Hey," he grinned at her.

Her eyebrows shot up. "Hello," she answered warily. "Yes, 911?" Turning slightly away, she began to explain the situation rapidly, her voice shaking only mildly.

The teen kept smiling at her despite the fact that she wasn't looking. It wasn't just her thick red hair and good figure that had caught his attention, although those things certainly weren't hurting; instead, it was the tenacity and take-charge attitude that she was displaying that really struck him. _She probably cracked a couple of this bozo's ribs,_ he admired, knocking the now-moaning crook's good hand away from his pant leg distractedly. _And right after he had a gun pointed at her, too. How many victims would do that? Not many, that's for sure, and most of __them__ wouldn't have stopped once the guy was down._

"They've got a car on the way. Someone else reported the gunfire," she informed him, putting her hand over the microphone. Her eyes widened as she caught sight of his arm. "You're bleeding!"

"…Huh?" He glanced down to find the sleeve of his jacket reddening slowly. Rotating his arm to examine the wound, he shrugged. "Eh. It's nothing. Just a graze."

"_Nothing_?! Operator, the person who saved me's been shot," she spoke into the phone. "Yes, he's conscious. He's a bit of an _idiot_, but he's conscious." Her hand rose to the phone again. "She says you should sit down."

"It's _fine_. It's not even bleeding that bad!" he argued. _I've had __way__ worse, trust me,_ he didn't add. _…Actually, I might be giving too much away by taking this so well. Crap. _The necessity of protecting Robin warred briefly with his desire to appear as macho as possible in front of his attractive new acquaintance. He didn't get the chance to find out how the battle would have ended, however, as what he would eventually learn was the redhead's 'librarian voice' cut it short.

"_Sit. Down,"_ she glared.

_Whoa. Who trained her to give that look, Alfred?_ he started. "Uh…sure," he nodded, taking a step back from the injured mugger and folding his legs under himself. "Better?" he asked with a hopeful grin.

"…Stay there," she jabbed a finger at him as a cruiser blocked off the entrance to the alleyway. "I'm going to go talk to them."

"Don't worry, I won't let him get away," he only half-joked, pointing his chin at the whining crook on the ground in front of him.

That gave her pause. "…How old are you, kid?" she crossed her arms.

_Kid?_ he pouted. "…Does it matter?"

"…You _did_ just attack a guy who had a gun pointed at me," she mused. _And took a bullet in the process. Which doesn't seem to have fazed you much…that's strange. Well, I'll just find out what I want to know from the police report. Perks of being the Commissioner's daughter._ "I guess it doesn't." With that, she turned towards the flashing lights.

"Wait! Uh…I didn't get your name," he flashed the most winning smile he could conjure up.

Her mouth dropped open slightly. _Correction; the fight and the bullet don't seem to have fazed you at __all__. You're out there, whoever you are._ A tiny voice in the back of her head spoke up. _…I kind of like it._ "Barbara," she answered before she realized she was about to speak. "And I…I have to go talk to the police."

_Crud. _"…Guess I blew that, huh?" he asked the gunman, who merely panted back at him. Dick frowned. _That's kind of weird. She didn't kick him __that__ hard…_

"You okay, kid?" an officer asked him from a few feet away.

_I'm not a freaking kid,_ he almost snapped. "…Yeah, I'm fine. You'd probably better get an ambulance for this guy, though. He's breathing funny."

"We've got one on the way already. Would you, ah…would you mind putting down your weapon?"

"…What? Oh," he realized he still held the bent and slightly bloody rebar in his hands. "Sorry. Just didn't want to get taken by surprise, you know?" Dropping it, he stood up.

"Whoa, wait until the paramedics-"

"I'm _fine_. Jeez, it's practically stopped bleeding on its own already."

"Well…" the officer examined it. "…I guess go give your statement to the other officer, then, if you're sure you can make it over there okay. But don't leave until that's been looked at by the paramedics."

Barbara was just reaching the point in her own story where Dick had come in when he drew up beside her. "…Then he comes strolling down the way like he's on a pleasant afternoon walk," she frowned at him.

"What were you doing around here, son?" the cop asked.

_Would people __please__ quit treating me like I'm five?_ he barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "I just finished taking…a test," he stated, not wanting to make it obvious that he was still in high school by admitting to which test it was that he'd been taking, "down at the Brookings Center. I was walking by on my way to meet someone and saw trouble. I thought I'd…you know…lend a hand." He went on into the details, noting happily that the almost-victim – _Barbara,_ he reminded himself, _she said her name was Barbara – _nodded along all the way through. "And then you guys showed up."

"That was very noble, but it could have gotten you killed," the officer intoned, not looking up from her notes. "Next time, step around the corner and call 911. Don't be a hero."

"Hey, I was _just-_"

"She's right," Barbara cut him off. "…You could have gotten yourself killed. But…I still owe you my thanks."

"You could let me take you out to dinner," he suggested with a suavity he hadn't known he possessed until that moment.

The uniformed woman stifled a laugh as two high spots of color appeared in Barbara's cheeks. "Oho, honey, you have fun with that," she snapped her notebook shut. "Don't either of you go anywhere," she instructed, moving past them to help her partner with the two downed criminals.

"…How old _are_ you?" the redhead repeated, a bit more stunned-sounding this time.

"I'm sixteen." It was technically a lie – his birthday wasn't for another month – but it sounded a whole lot better than fifteen at the moment. "What're you, seventeen? Eighteen?"

"Try twenty-one," she suggested.

"…Oh." _No wonder she's blowing me off, I'm only three quarters of her age. Still, though…dad was five years older than mom. What does age matter?_ "So you're allowed to drink when we go out, and I'm not. Big deal," he waved away. "Doesn't matter to me."

"Okay, one," she said firmly, "you're right; it doesn't matter, because we _aren't_ going to dinner, or lunch, or on any other date. Two-" _wow, kid, you have one hell of a sad-puppy look in your repertoire, _"-the ambulance is here. You should go get your arm checked out."

"Hey, wait," he requested softly, before she could walk away forever. "…Can I at least have your phone number? I promise I won't use it until I'm at least old enough to vote," he swore.

"You'll lose it before then," she countered.

"You clearly don't know me very well, Barbara…what did you say your last name was?"

"…I didn't," she answered slowly. _There's something about you. I don't know what it is, but…why do I think that you really __won't__ lose my number between now and whenever your eighteenth birthday is? More importantly, why am I kind of okay with that idea?_ "…but it's Gordon."

"Wait, not…not like _Commissioner_ Gordon?" _Oh, that's just lovely._

"Seeing as how he's my father, yes, it would be like _Commissioner_ Gordon," she sighed. "…So much for wanting my number, huh?"

"What are you, crazy? Of course I still want your number. The police don't scare me, and your dad's…seems," he corrected himself, "okay." _That was close. Robin knows the Commissioner, not you, genius._

Shaking her head, she took her purse from the returning policewoman and dug out a pen and an old receipt. "Here," she shoved it at him. "Thank you for stopping them," she said sincerely as he accepted it and smoothed it carefully out.

"You're welcome," he replied, examining the number to make sure it was at least a Gotham prefix and not some '555' thing she'd heard in a movie. "So, Barbara Gordon," he gave her a cheeky little grin once he was satisfied. "Talk to you in a couple of years."

She laughed. "Sure…wait, what was _your_ name?" _Pull yourself together, woman, you're letting a sixteen year old boy fluster you! It's that damn smirk…why does it seem so familiar, somehow?_

"Yeah, I'm going to need that, too," the officer said.

"You bet." He offered his hand to the redhead. "Dick Grayson."

The cop stared, her mouth an oval of disbelief, but Barbara just blinked twice and shook carefully, mindful of the fact that he'd given up his injured arm. "Not…not like Bruce Wayne's ward?" she inquired.

"Well, seeing as how he's my guardian, yeah, it would be like Bruce Wayne," he purposefully mirrored her words from a few moments earlier. "Who's actually waiting for me in his office, so…I should get going. Unless, of course, you've changed your mind about food now that you know I can actually pay for it?"

"Hold it, no billionaire's kid is walking away with a gunshot wound on my watch," the policewoman jumped in.

"And you're still only…sixteen, did you say?" Barbara asked in a tone that suggested she knew better. "So, I have to pass."

"Well, that just gives me something to look forward to in a couple of years, I guess," he shrugged as the officer grabbed his shoulder and began pulling him towards the ambulance. "See you around, pretty lady," he waved her phone number with a triumphant grin.

'_Pretty lady'?_ she chuckled. _You're a real piece of work, Dick Grayson. Thanks for keeping my day from going straight to hell._

l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l/l

Bruce was somewhere south of pleased when two members of the GPD knocked on his office door with his son in tow. "…Is everything all right?" he asked, playing the concerned parent. _I know he didn't do anything illegal. That's not him. _Catching sight of the heavy bandage on the teen's forearm, any need to act the part dissipated. _Was there an incident during the test? What did you get yourself into now, chum?_

The police gave him a brief rundown, being sure to point out that while Dick's actions had been very brave, they'd also been very dangerous. "We already had a talk, but…well, you should probably reiterate how lucky he is to be alive," the female officer suggested. "In any case, he's all yours."

"Thank you," the billionaire nodded, draping an arm around the boy's shoulders as he moved away from his escorts. "We'll have a good, long talk, I assure you." Once the soundproofed doors were shut, he let out a weary sigh. "…Dick?"

"Well, what did you expect me to do? I couldn't just walk by!" he exclaimed, pulling away and moving over a few steps as he sensed a lecture coming on. "_You_ wouldn't have just walked by!"

"No. I wouldn't have. I would have stepped around the corner and called the police," he answered tersely. _But you couldn't do that. Of course you couldn't. You're too giving, Dick. That's going to bite you someday, probably hard. I know it's just in your nature to do for others until you simply can't do any more, but it scares me that one of these days you're going to go too far, and give too much. The day you do that will be the day Batman loses control of __his__ nature, kiddo, and that won't be good for anyone._

"They had a _gun_, Bruce. What if they'd shot her while I was on the phone, waiting for the cops to show up?"

"What if they'd shot you instead?" he asked, trying to keep his voice from trembling at the thought.

"First off, they did, remember?" he raised his arm. "Second, it wouldn't exactly be the first time."

"For _Robin._ It wouldn't be the first time for _Robin _to be…shot." He paused. "But it _would_ be the first time for Dick Grayson." _I expect Robin to be in danger. Robin can defend himself ably. I'm prepared, somewhat, for Robin getting hurt. But like this…no. This is why you aren't supposed to be out and about in the city unescorted. I'm __not__ prepared for this, Dick. Not at all._

"…Oh." _ So that's what it is? I wasn't trying to scare you, I just…I couldn't let them get away with it._

"I think something a little stronger than just 'oh' is appropriate, but at least you get the picture now." He crossed the distance between them and cupped his son's face. "…You're all right, though?" he asked quietly.

"I'm fine. I…I thought you were mad about…you know…identity stuff," he mumbled, his upset cooling.

"If you'd given anything away about that, they wouldn't have brought you to my door. I would have been called to the Commissioner's office." _Besides, I know you, and you would have protected your mask, and by extension mine, even if it cost you your life. Hence the problem; playing civilian in a stick-up is a good way to get killed. _The man dropped his forehead down to rest against the boy's. "I'm upset that you pulled a stunt like that, out of costume, in the middle of the day. But I'm more relieved that all you got out of it was a scrape."

"Weeell…that's not quite _all_ I got out of it," he smirked, remembering the receipt in his pocket.

"…Meaning?" he tensed. _It wouldn't be the first time he's tried to hide an injury…_

"I got her phone number."

"…Whose phone number?" he frowned, stepping back to look him in the eye.

"The _girl's_. The one who was being mugged?" He presented the paper with a flourish. "Ta-da!"

"Jesus, how old was this 'girl'?" Bruce took it.

"Uh…twenty-one," he blushed. "And _gorgeous_."

"She's too old for you."

"That's what she said, until I promised to wait until I was eighteen to call her."

The billionaire laughed at that. "This is what I get for raising a charmer."

"Hey, what can I say, I've been watching a smooth operator for _years_ now. Did you really think I wouldn't pick up a few moves?"

"No," he shook his head, examining the number. "…This is a real number," he looked mildly impressed. "So long as it doesn't go to her dry cleaner, I'd say good job."

"Even if it _does_ go to her cleaner," Dick picked the slip of thermal tape from his guardian's fingers, "I can look her up. I got her name, too." _Oh, man, he's gonna love this._

"And?"

"And you're going to flip out."

"Dick…"

"Maybe you should sit down."

"Dick, tell me the girl's name."

"You know her dad."

He hesitated. "…I know a lot of people's dads."

"_Both_ yous know her dad. That was Barbara Gordon's phone number you just informed me is legit."

"…Holy shit, kiddo. If she looks anything like her mother did-"

"Seeing as how I don't find the Commissioner attractive, you can bet yes on that."

"-then you scored. _If,_" he teased, "she picks up the phone in two years."

"Oh, she will. How can she ignore the guy who saved her from those awful muggers?" he pulled a face.

"Careful. No daughter of Jim Gordon's could possibly be a pushover. Not even for _your_ pout," he cautioned.

"I don't know, she seemed pretty close to cracking towards the end. Then again, it's a dangerous game. If Batman taught a class in motivational glaring, she'd be the top student."

"Speaking of Batman…"

"Ah, crap, Bruce, really?" he begged, knowing where this was heading.

"No patrol tonight."

"How is that even fair? I managed to stop a violent crime, in daylight hours, without giving away Robin and while suffering only extremely mild injury. Shouldn't I get an _extra_ patrol for that?"

"Nice try," the billionaire's lips twitched upwards. "But no. You're hurt, _and_ you failed to call for a ride when you'd been specifically told to do so." As he spoke he moved back around his desk and secured his briefcase.

"But it was a nice day out! And I had to save Barbara!"

"From a crime that you had no idea was occurring when you set out?"

He crossed his arms in preparation to argue, then flinched slightly when he brushed the bandage. "…Ow."

"Didn't they give you painkillers?"

"They tried. I said I didn't need them." He grimaced. "…Kind of regretting that now, to be honest."

"Was the girl in earshot?" Bruce chuckled.

"…Possibly. I wasn't taking any chances."

"Naturally. I'd have done the same," he admitted.

"Of course you would have. Whose cues do you think I was taking out there today?" Dick jested.

"A few of mine, maybe. But…mostly your own." Rejoining him near the door, he squeezed his shoulder for a second. "…I'm proud of you, son. You did good work today, even if you shouldn't have done that work at all."

"Thanks," came back softly.

"…But you're still grounded."

"Aw, man!"

**Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed this little alternate take on Dick and Babs' first meeting. I know in some later storylines they're about the same age, but it's my understanding that in the original canon Barbara was several years older than Dick, so that's what I went with. Obviously at this point Barbara isn't Batgirl yet, but she sure is cool under fire, and probably the only girl in the world capable of withstanding a Grayson grin for longer than half a second. Happy reading! **


	5. Habit

Checking on his son after patrol wasn't something Bruce even thought about anymore. It was just part of his nightly routine, as unskippable as changing before he left the cave or letting Alfred know that he'd returned safely before going to bed.

The first few nights of the boy's residence in the manor, he'd poked his head into his room merely out of respect for the oddity of the situation. Virtually no one other than himself and Alfred had slept in the house for twenty years; even when he was courting some society floozy, he tried to keep their liaisons limited to her place and hotels. Put simply, he didn't like polluting his personal space with the baggage of meaningless attachments.

He'd wondered, leaning in the doorway and considering the restless child every night during that earliest week, what inviting him into the mansion meant. _Clearly I knew what I was doing,_ he'd frowned, lost in thought. _Didn't I? I mean…hell._ _What have I started?_ It was a little late to be asking such a question, he knew, but it kept pushing itself forward. _I should be in bed, but I'm standing here, instead. Why? He's obviously fine, so why?_

It didn't take long for him to find out. The sixth night that he stayed up to loaf in the hallway, he'd heard the sounds of stifled crying. _…Oh,_ something had pinched in his chest. _I guess that's what I've been waiting for, then. Breaking. _He'd comforted him, awkwardly at first, then far more easily once the nightmare that had woken him was explained. He could certainly commiserate, having been disturbed on thousands of nights by memories of those last few moments of his parents' lives. After that incident, checking on him before turning in began to feel less like pointless stalking and more like an extension of the duties he'd agreed to when he signed the guardianship documents. Before long, the legalities ceased to matter; he looked in on the boy for his own comfort, not because it seemed like something he was expected to do.

It was as he was performing his newest nightly duty that he realized that he was coming dangerously close to letting Dick into a part of himself that had not been thrown open to anyone in two decades. The thought disturbed him deeply; to love, after all, was to invite soul-crushing pain. Everything was bound to crumble eventually, no matter how much you treasured it, and he wasn't sure he had the strength for another such injury. Determined to save himself from certain agony, he tried to withdraw, curtailing the time he spent with the child while he was awake and halting his nighttime checks.

The plan to become more distant would have worked beautifully for him had he been able to sleep. The first evening, he swore that his insomnia was a normal response to breaking what had become a routine over the past month. When terrors about the boy began forcing him back to consciousness in cold sweats, however, he started to worry that he had waited too long. _Give it three weeks,_ he counseled himself. _Three weeks, and it will get better. Three weeks to break a habit, you know that._

Dick grew increasingly pallid and miserable by the day as the person he thought he'd found a camaraderie with pulled away for no discernible reason. Alfred sent the billionaire more and more scathing looks every time they passed in the halls. By the end of day seven, Bruce was so exhausted that he nearly fell asleep on a rooftop while running surveillance. _…I can't do this,_ he realized. That night, he stopped outside the boy's door, hearing tiny sniffles within. _…Why do I get the feeling that those aren't exclusively for his parents?_ he'd bemoaned, listening for only a moment before barging in to make it stop.

He slept like the dead that night, and he never again tried to skip out on his pre-bed check.

Overnight JLA missions became a bother, especially when they stretched over more than one bedtime. He still took them, of course, but a part of him resented them greatly. Sensing that and knowing the reason, Clark asked him to take on long tasks as infrequently as possible. Even with the concession, though, absences couldn't be completely avoided. He quickly learned that he couldn't slough off the last tension from an assignment until he saw Dick safely asleep under the covers. As a result, the first place Bruce went upon returning from a task – he always seemed to make it home in the dead of night, for some strange reason – was consistently his son's bedroom.

And then there were all the times the billionaire had feared when he first felt his resolve giving way under the child's smile. The illness and injuries piled up, and far too often he ended up doing his nightly check down in the cave's infirmary or, in less serious cases, after carrying the smaller figure upstairs following treatment. Those moments were a mixed bag of emotions for him, jumbled despair and relief as he considered what could have happened and what actually had. Subsequent evenings were little better, as there were bandages to change and temperatures to be checked. Every ounce of his boy's discomfort at bedtime weighed at least a pound in his heart.

Some days, especially of late, it seemed that the only time he saw him was during those few stolen minutes before the elder vigilante turned in. The boy, now grown into his teen years, was often already asleep, especially on school nights. In those instances Bruce would simply brush back his hair, leave a soft kiss on his forehead or temple, and pull the covers up higher before departing. After their weekend patrols he was frequently able to catch him awake, and the little chats they fell into tended to stretch out far longer than they probably should have given the hour. It didn't matter; they both slept their best after such occasions, and neither would have dreamt of complaining.

Opening the door this evening, the billionaire gave a disappointed sigh. _Still out with the team,_ he fretted silently. Sometimes – mostly during moments such as this one, when he missed his partner terribly but could do nothing about it – he wished he hadn't allowed him to join Young Justice. It was only a passing regret, however; he knew Dick loved it, and the extra training and social time with others around his age certainly weren't going to hurt him. _I thought they were supposed to be back tonight, _his frown deepened. _Damn Clark, not letting me supervise this mission. Where __is__ he? It's almost three in the morning. I guess he might have decided to stay over at the mountain, but he knows he's supposed to call when he does that…_

Returning to the cave, he began to change back into the gear he had just stripped off, intent on finding out for himself. Halfway through, the Zeta tube announced the arrival of the boy he'd been about to take off after. Bruce's shoulders slumped with relief as he heard him approaching.

"Hey," Robin greeted, coming around the corner. "Did you just get back?"

"No. I was fixing to come look for you. Where have you been?"

"…On the mission?" he looked at the man as if he were crazy. "With the team? What, did Supes not tell you about it or something?"

"…No, he told me. He also told me you expected to be back by midnight."

"We did. It just didn't go so hot, so we were later than we thought." As if to prove his point, he stripped off his tunic, revealing a mass of bruises across his back and left side. "…Pretty, huh?"

"Were you checked over already?" Bruce asked through gritted teeth as he drew closer and examined the marks. Fists, some sort of staff or bat, and what he was pretty sure was a combat boot had all left their characteristic contusions on his child's torso. _…It's a miracle if you don't have any broken bones._

"Yeah, same as everyone else. No one was seriously injured, and we got the job done, but remind me to never, ever accept a mission against guards trained by a former Shaolin monk again, okay?"

"...You're _kidding_ me."

"Aahh…please don't kill Uncle Clark. I mean, _someone_ had to do it, right?" he begged weakly, recognizing the man's expression. "And besides, no one got _very_ hurt. We kicked some major ass, considering what we were up against."

"Well, that explains why he didn't want me supervising this weekend," Bruce growled. "And don't let Alfred hear you cursing."

"…Does that mean you're going to let me slide?" he gave him a conspiratorial grin.

"Tonight, yes," he conceded. _You earned it, from the sound of things. _"Did you have anything for pain?"

"Yeah," he flinched as he pulled on pajama pants. "…Not that it seems to be working. God, I swear the worst part of getting hurt is just after you take off the costume," he groaned, holding his side.

"Compression is a beautiful thing sometimes. Sit down and wait for me to change, we'll take the elevator up."

"We don't have to, I can do the stairs just fine," Dick protested as he dropped carefully onto a bench.

"Good. We're taking the elevator anyway," the billionaire informed him as he switched back into his civilian gear for the second time that night. "Don't argue."

"Okay, okay."

A few minutes later he accepted the hand Bruce offered to help him to his feet, and they made their way to the lift. Neither spoke as they rode up to the second floor. The silence was broken finally as they reached the teen's bedroom door.

"…You coming in for a little while?" Dick asked, pausing with his hand on the knob. _I know you. You won't sleep well tonight if you don't see me to bed. And…well, I'd never admit this to anyone but you, but I'd kind of like to be tucked in tonight. It's been one of those days._

"…Yeah," he nodded. _I won't sleep for shit tonight if I don't tuck you in. Besides, I get the feeling you want me to._ He followed him into the room, waited for him to crawl under the blankets with a little moan, and then came forward and sat on the edge of the bed. "So tell me about this mission."

"We were sent to get info on double agents and sleeper cells already in place inside US borders. The only digital records were in this super-secure underground bunker, totally unconnected to the outside. That place was freaking _miserable_ to get into without getting caught, even after we left Kid Klutz up top to stand guard." He shook his head, chuckling slightly at his best friend. "I love Wally, but he couldn't manage protracted stealth even if you offered him a lifetime supply of cheese puffs. Anyway, we got in – don't ask me how, I'm pretty sure Lady Luck thinks I used loaded dice on that roll – and made it to a terminal. Magic fingers," he wiggled his hands in the air, "and boom, we had the files. No one detected us."

"Then why were you attacked?"

"We weren't. We attacked them."

"…There had better be a damn good explanation for what you just said, Dick," he glowered. _I know there is, but…there was no option that didn't involve you receiving a fairly decent beating?_

"No choice. There was only one way in and out. It was clear enough on the way in that we were able to sneak past the guards, but they were in the middle of a shift change or something by the time we tried to leave. All I know for sure is that there were about thirty guys in the room we had to go across, half of them were headed right for us, and there was _nowhere_ for us all to hide. So…using the element of surprise seemed like our best bet." He shrugged. "Ow. Anyway, it worked. We got out of there with the info, and nobody got too busted up. Other than the goons watching the place, of course," he smirked. "They're going to regret having been born when they wake up. Superman was pretty happy about it all, so…"

"Yes, well…"

_Oops. Shouldn't have said that last part._ "…How was patrol? Did I miss anything fun?" he asked, trying to change the topic.

Bruce thought back over his evening. "There's a new pimp running things off of Central. You'll like him, he thinks he's classy."

"Oh?" he yawned, intrigued but exhausted. "Is his wardrobe better than Sheik Nicky's was? Because that guy had _terrible_ taste in clothes, even for a pimp."

"Well, this evening he decided that purple velour and faux sealskin work well together."

Dick gagged. "…Did his shoes have buckles? _Tell_ me his shoes had buckles, Bruce."

"Not those ones. The ones he had on later did, though," his mouth twitched amusedly.

"…He changed clothes midway through the night?" the teen boggled. "Into _what_? What could he possibly own more outrageous than his royal plush and marine mammal combo?"

"A gold-tone suit – complete with matching hat, keep in mind – with a purple boa. And the buckle shoes, of course."

"Of course. You can't keep the pimp hand strong without your buckle shoes and your purple boa." He tried not to laugh. "Oh, it hurts," he half-groaned, half-giggled as he clutched his side. "Must…stop…laughing…gaaah…"

"…You going to live, there, partner?" Bruce asked, happy to see him so amused but wincing at how uncomfortable the emotion must be with the state of his abused back and side.

"…Yeah," he panted finally. "Ooooow. Crap. How come the funny stuff always happen when I'm off with the team, huh? Couldn't Batman have swooped down and told this guy to save his worst clothing for when Robin could see, too?"

"I'm sure he's got plenty more where tonight's outfits came from."

"Catwalk catastrophes," Dick said, sprawling out on his stomach. "Mmm, that's better. Hurts less."

"…Can you breathe like that?" his guardian frowned.

"Uh-huh. What's Mr. Fabulous' name, anyway?"

"He goes by Bishop Charmin. A couple of the girls just called him 'Bish.'"

"…_Bishop?_ Oh, god, don't make me laugh any more, Bruce, I'm begging you."

"You asked, kiddo."

"I know, but…Bishop Charmin. Wow." He yawned again. "Oh, man, I'm going to wake up giggling from that one."

_Better that than waking up screaming,_ Bruce didn't comment. "Well, you can't wake up if you don't go to sleep first," he pointed out, rising. "And it's way past both of our bedtimes."

"It's Sunday, who cares?"

"You have school tomorrow morning. If you sleep late today you won't go to bed at a decent time tonight."

"No school Monday. Teacher workdaaaay," a third yawn stretched the word out. "Sorry."

"Well, you can use the extra day to rest, then. No patrol until those bruises start fading."

"Aren't they technically fading already?" he muttered.

_Only if the subdermal bleeding's actually stopped,_ the billionaire's mouth pursed. "Not visibly. Light training only for a couple of days, all right? And I'll let Alfred know that you're back."

"Mmkay," was returned almost inaudibly. "…Night, Bruce." And with that, he passed out.

"…Crazy kid," the man said, considering him for a long moment with a gentle smile on his face. Finally he bent down and tugged the covers up over his son's shoulders, resting his hand on his hair for just a second before he pulled away. "…Good night, chum. Sleep tight," he breathed once he reached the doorway. _Now that I know you're safe in bed, maybe I'll be able to, too._


	6. Reason

On a rooftop above the city, Robin was frowning darkly. _Why am I sitting here again?_ he asked himself silently. _This is the fourth patrol running that he's made me watch this block. There's nothing even going on! I could have gone with him to stop that B&E, but no, I'm stuck staring at the corner of Boring and Empty. I wish he'd just tell me what I did to deserve punishment…_

It wasn't entirely still down below – a few people had crossed the road since he'd been ordered to keep an eye out earlier in the night – but there certainly hadn't been any suspicious activity. The most violent crime he'd witnessed all evening was the grocer picking his nose as he locked up. _Seriously, Bats, what did I do to get stuck with the lamest intersection in Gotham for two weekends straight while you're off doing the cool stuff? This is totally unfair._

And yet he watched, and waited, and listened, because that was what he'd been told to do. The first night, he had assumed that there was a good reason behind his assignment, and had carefully scrutinized each element of the street, memorizing it. When absolutely nothing of interest happened all night, he had inquired with Batman as to what exactly he was supposed to be looking for. The answer he'd received had been a fair bit less than helpful.

"Anything and everything," the cowled man had replied as they climbed into the Batmobile.

Robin had considered that for a moment, waiting until they were safely ensconced in the soundproof car to search for clarification. "So, is there a particular person you suspect is working around there, or…?"

"It could be anyone."

"So there is someone doing something, or there isn't? Because I didn't see _anything_ tonight that set my alarms off, so…it might be helpful to know what I'm looking for, you know?"

"Just watch, Robin. Watch everything."

Thus the first night had ended. He had tried to interrogate Bruce about it the next day while they were sparring, and had gotten the same vague answers, albeit that they'd been borne to his ears on a more understanding tone. Mildly confused – _why won't he tell me what I'm supposed to be looking for? Is this a test of some sort? –_ he'd returned to his lookout post the very next night, his determination to find whatever it was Batman wanted him to find redoubled. _There must be something here. He wouldn't have put me on alert in this spot if there wasn't…_

And yet, there had been nothing of note once more. _What is going __on__?_ he'd wanted to demand when he dropped into the passenger seat of the car, annoyed. He bit his tongue, however, fuming silently the entire way back to the cave. _An entire weekend of patrol, and I didn't get to nab a single criminal. I didn't even __see__ any bad guys, just the lady with that weird hair pouf walking her dog eight times and the granny who hobbled down to the corner store both nights to buy out the discounted hot deli items. The hairdo is weird, and the hot dogs are probably rubbery, but neither one is a crime. So why am I there? _

He asked Bruce again on Sunday afternoon. "But _what_ am I monitoring for?" he begged. "Everyone I see, they're just normal people, with regular lives. Regular, _mind-numbing_ lives. I mean, what am I missing?" _It's starting to feel like you're wasting my time,_ he held back. _It's fine if there's something you want watched for around there, but at least tell me what you suspect so I know you're not just…getting me out of your way, or something._

But neither the billionaire nor his dark alter ego breathed a word of advice other than to keep watching, and let him know if there were changes on the street. As he took up his spot on the third night, Robin had only been able to hope that something, _anything_, would be forthcoming.

A few hours later had found him glowering as they returned home. _Nothing. Again, __nothing__. _He didn't bother asking for clarification on his mission again, since that tactic had been completely unsuccessful the first two times. _What good is this doing? I'm not using my skills, I'm not stopping any crimes, and I'm not doing anything to help Batman. _Deciding to find out for himself what it was his mentor suspected, he'd turned to the computer, looking up everything he could about the street, the neighborhood, and its residents. _Decent enough people leading decent enough lives,_ he'd been forced to conclude finally. There were no villains with a history of working in that area, and no evidence that there was a new threat growing. _There's __no reason__ to keep me there. But…__why__, then?_

He stayed in his room all afternoon on the second Saturday, avoiding Bruce and giving in to moping and musing. He recalled every moment he'd been out as Robin over the past couple of months, trying to figure out how he'd screwed up so bad as to make Batman stick him on such a pointless task. _I didn't __do__ anything. So why does he keep shoving me away? _

There had been no good answer that he could discern, and he'd almost bucked when his partner dropped him off in the same dead-end for a fourth time. "…Batman," he'd begun, his shoulders slumping.

"Keep a sharp eye out. And let me know if anything changes." It was a dismissal, and he took the cue disconsolately, climbing out of the car and watching with crossed arms as it rolled noiselessly away.

"…This _sucks_," he'd mumbled to the empty alleyway before grappling up to the roof. Now, four long, uninteresting hours later, his rear was numb, his eyes were fuzzy, and his brain cried out for stimulation. Boots landed beside him, but he didn't look up.

"…Robin?"

"What?"

The black-clad man frowned slightly at the short, gruff response. _It's not like you to be borderline rude_, he pondered. _I know you're frustrated by this task, but you've no reason to be so angry._ "…No change?"

"Nope. Shocking, I know," he stood up, "but whatever it is you've stuck me here to go insane with boredom looking for once again failed to appear. Since you refuse to tell me what exactly that is, I guess I'll just never get to know what I've wasted four patrols waiting for." With that, he stalked past him, heading for where he knew the car would be idling. _…I'm going to be in trouble for that,_ the teen thought unhappily, _but it's not like I'm doing any good out here anyway. Not when this is all he'll let me do._

Staring after the younger vigilante, Batman's eyes narrowed behind his lenses. _…I may have miscalculated this lesson,_ he considered. _But I honestly thought he would have seen __something__ by this point. It's not like him to be so unobservant._ He cast a glance back over the street. _Plenty has changed since last weekend. So why doesn't he see it?_

Neither spoke during the ride into the hills, nor once they entered the cave and started to change. Robin jerked his costume off with a level of acrimony foreign to his usual good nature, dropping each piece onto the floor and then scooping the entire pile up and shoving it into the bin to be cleaned. Ripping his mask off – Bruce cringed at the sound of the spirit gum yanking at the boy's skin – he tossed it in on top, slammed the lid shut, and headed for the stairs, shrugging a loose shirt on over his pajama pants as he went.

"Dick."

"I know, it's after my bedtime. I'm going."

"Stop. It isn't that." Tying his robe hastily, the billionaire came up beside him and rested a hand on his shoulder. "…You want to tell me what's got you in such a bad mood tonight?"

"What the hell do you _think_?" the teen snapped.

"…Whatever it is, I don't think the swearing was necessary," Bruce said archly. _What's wrong with you? First you locked yourself in your room all day, and now you're being pissy and cursing? I'm not a fan, chum. Not at all. Where's my happy boy?_ "Is this about patrol, or…?"

"Obviously it's about _patrol_. You've only had me sitting on the same stupid roof for two weekends straight. Let me guess; that's where you're going to put me next week, too, right?" he shot.

"Yes, but…" _But I'm starting to think that wouldn't be a very good idea._

"But _what_?" he demanded, pulling away roughly. "Do you have some new, equally useless spot for me to while away my time with instead? Some other corner you want me to memorize the residents of? That's kind of a shame, Bruce; I was really interested in whether or not Mr. Fielding found his cat. The flyer's only been up since yesterday, and so far stupid hair lady and granny the hot-bar fiend are the only ones I've seen stop and look at it. Not that I expect them to spend any time looking for the thing, of course; from what I can tell, stupid hair is too busy Bedazzling her dog's collars to notice much more than the glasses on her face, and granny's got more pressing issues trying to figure out the new cane she got some time since last weekend. At least I assume it's new, since she didn't have it the first two nights you _abandoned_ me up there and she seemed to be moving more carefully with it than she did with her old one." Winding down, he wrapped his arms protectively around his sides, his ireful expression not quite managing to cover up the hurt burning in his eyes.

_…Oh, yeah, I miscalculated that training, all right,_ Bruce winced internally. "You…you noticed all of that?" he asked quietly. _Why didn't you tell me all of that nights ago?_

"Well it's not like there was anything else going on _to_ notice," he fired back. "Oh, wait; they pruned the tree on the corner, someone took the last blue line schedule from the bus stop earlier today, and there's a fresh hopscotch board on the sidewalk in front of the twelve-unit apartment building. It's all just _riveting_, isn't it? I'd say it was a waste of my time, but to be honest you didn't really seem to need me these last two weekends, so I guess maybe _I've_ been wasting _your _time all along!" _If you don't want me out there with you any more, Bruce, at least tell me why. I deserve that much elucidation, don't I?_

The billionaire listened wordlessly until the last bit. "_Whoa,_" he darted forward and snagged the teen's elbow as he tried to walk away. "Whoa. Stop right there," he turned him around to face him and levered his face up. There was a flash of rebellion in his gaze, but everything beneath it was pain and rejection. "Don't _ever_ say that again, Dick," he shook his head. "Don't even think that. Wasting my time? What…?"

"Well why else would you tell me to stare at what's probably the only crime-free street in Gotham for four straight patrols, unless…unless you didn't need me? Or didn't want me? Or… something," the boy mumbled, eyes hot with unshed tears.

"I was trying to make a _point_, kiddo."

"_What_ point? I asked you a million times what I was supposed to be looking for, and you wouldn't tell me!"

"I thought you hadn't learned the lesson yet. If I'd told you what you were looking for, it would have negated the whole thing." _Although you had apparently already learned what I wanted you to, judging from the detail you just gave me,_ he winced. _…Sorry about that. if you'd just __told__ me…_ "Look, come sit down for a minute, okay? Let me explain."

"…Fine." _Maybe I'll finally find out what the hell I was supposed to be seeing all this time,_ he grouched as he was led to a chair. "So explain this big test that I evidently failed."

"…Dick, you didn't fail. I did." _It was a good lesson plan,_ he defended himself silently, _except that I apparently forgot to factor in your emotional response. That was foolish, and now it's biting me in the ass._

"…Huh?" he raised an eyebrow.

"'Even if you walk the same road a hundred times, you'll find something different each time,'" Bruce answered.

"…Oh, well, thanks for the clarification. I understand everything now, thanks," the teen rolled his eyes.

"It's a quote," the billionaire sighed. "And a good one, by the way. What I wanted you to take away from all of this was that you shouldn't grow complacent about your surroundings. Keep in mind that, no matter how many times you've seen a room, or a street, or a face, things are always changing. Even when they don't, _you_ do, so there's always something new to discover."

"…That whole 'you can't put your foot in the same river twice' thing? _That's _what this was about?"

"Right. It's an important lesson. The minute you assume that you know your surroundings and can therefore stop paying attention to them is the minute you _don't_ know your surroundings. And that's incredibly dangerous. I made that mistake once, and it nearly cost me my life. I just didn't want you repeating my error."

"So it _was_ punishment."

"Punishment?" the man puzzled. "No. Of course not. What good would it have been to punish you if I didn't tell you what you'd done wrong?"

"But I _did_ do something wrong, then?"

"What? No," he sighed. "No. This thing with the rooftop surveillance…that wasn't a punishment, Dick. It was supposed to be a teaching example. I just failed to realize that you'd already mastered it, and let it draw out too long."

The boy's mouth dropped open for a moment. "…Bruce, are you trying to tell me that the entire reason I've been sitting on that rooftop for four nights is because you wanted to make sure I was _paying attention_?"

"…To details, yes. Specifically, to changes in the minutiae of your surroundings."

"I've been your partner for five years, and you thought I had a _problem_ with that? Jeez, no _wonder_ you didn't want me with you on anything important, if you don't even think I can notice what's right in front of my face," he huffed. _Ouch, Bruce. That's…ouch._

"I _don't_ think that. Damn it, Dick…look, we all get overconfident at some point, all right? We reach a level of mastery that lulls us into a sense that we can just let certain things run on autopilot, because we've done them so much that they're second nature. And to an extent that's true, but it's easy to let yourself get _too_ lax, especially in areas that you're very good at. You've been an extremely good observer, especially of details and slight changes, for as long as I've known you," he shrugged.

"So…what, you thought that had changed? I'm really confused, Bruce," he admitted.

"Looking back on it, there wasn't much logic to my plan, either in its design or the drive behind it. I _thought_ there was, but…I'd been out on the streets for about as long as you have been when I screwed up and got overconfident. Like I said, it was nearly the end of me. I suppose it's possible that, subconsciously at least, I decided that it made sense that you were likely to grow complacent around the same time in your career that I did. After all, you're not a rookie any more, and you handle yourself better than some adults in masks do; you certainly wouldn't be misguided in considering yourself to be very able and skilled, because you are. I…I just feared that you would follow in my footsteps in a _bad_ way, and let your abilities blind you to the importance of keeping your eyes open at all times. This was my attempt to prevent that."

"By not telling me what I was supposed to be doing, or why. Good plan." _God, Bruce, you're brilliant, but sometimes I think you just shut your brain off and let yourself go crazy for a few days at a time…_

"That was stupid, I'll admit that. But if I'd told you what we were doing, what would have been the point of _doing_ it? We might as well have just sat down and talked about it, then gone on with our lives."

"…You mean like we're doing now?" the teen snarked. His tone was still accusational, but a small smile was threatening to spread across his lips.

"Yes," the billionaire sighed. "Like we're doing now. But what I don't get is, if you had the answer the second night, which I'm sure you did, why didn't you say so?"

"What answer? I _never_ found what you wanted me to!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, you did. You noticed the posters, the changes to the dog leash, the difference in an old woman's gait…even when you were sure you had memorized the whole block completely, you still picked up on little differences. So why didn't you _tell_ me about them when I asked if anything had changed? That's all I was waiting for."

"…Bruce, I thought I was looking for criminal stuff, not…not fake rhinestones around a German Shepherd's neck! Why would I think you would want to hear about those things? Why would I waste your time telling you about them, unless I knew you were testing me on my attention-paying?!" he threw up his hands. "That's why I kept _asking_ you what you wanted me to look for!"

They stared at one another for a long moment before the inanity of the entire situation tumbled over the edge into hilarity, leaving them laughing. "…It looks like if anything has slipped with time, it's our communication," Dick commented after a few minutes of disbelieving chuckles.

"Your communication is fine," Bruce countered. "You tried to get me to tell you, I just refused because I didn't want to give away what I was doing."

"I understand _why_ you did it," he assured, "but that was a really messed up way to get your point across."

"I know. But…Dick, just promise me you _won't_ get too comfortable with your surroundings, especially when you're out in the field. No matter how many times you've been on a particular street, or how long you've stared at a floor plan…don't stop watching for changes." _I don't know what I'd do if you came back some night in the state I was in after my screw-up. Don't make me go through that, chum. Please. Not if you can help it._

"Bruce, you've been hammering that lesson home since day one. I'll probably die taking in details at this point." He paused, swallowing hard at the look that ghosted over his guardian's features at that. "…Bad wording," he backpedaled. "Sorry. But you know what I mean. Besides," he grinned, trying to lighten the air somewhat, "I don't have Batman's ego, so maybe I'm slightly less likely to get overconfident, huh?"

"Ha, ha," the billionaire mocked. _You might have a point there. I hope you do._ "…I'm glad we talked about this."

"Me, too. But next time you have some super important lesson you want to get through to me, could we maybe _start_ with this step, instead of going through all the dumb, convoluted crap to get here?"

"Sounds like a plan," he nodded.

"And can I go back to real patrols now? I don't mind surveillance when there's actually something _important_ I'm looking for, but this was ridiculous."

"I'll try to do the boring stuff without you for a couple of weeks to make up for it," Bruce conceded. "We'll have some fun. Maybe we'll get lucky and there will be a drug ring we can bust up next weekend." _You like those, I know. _

"I _love_ busting up drug rings," Dick sighed happily, the last vestiges of negativity fleeing before a wave of delight at the prospect of keeping controlled substances off of the streets.

"Well…we'll find something."

"We always do," the teen nodded, standing up with a yawn. "…You working down here for a while still?" he inquired.

"Yes. But _you_ need to go to bed. You have school tomorrow."

"Don't remind me. My teachers are as bad at giving us details on our assignments as Batman is," he jabbed lightly.

"All right, that was the last crack you get, got it?" Bruce said as he rose to his feet. Reaching over, he ruffled his son's hair. "…Get upstairs now, before Alfred flays us both alive."

"Are you going to stick your head in later?"

"Of course I am." _It would be pointless for me to lay down if I didn't, because I sure wouldn't be getting any sleep._

"Okay." Shuffling forward, he wrapped his arms around the man and squeezed. A broad arm crossed his back and clutched him close for a second before releasing him. "Goodnight, Bruce."

"Night, kiddo."

"And Bruce?" he called back from the base of the stairs.

"Hmm?"

"…Don't forget to stop by on your way to bed. I'll notice if you do," he winked before skipping up the steps.

_Knowing that you're still monitoring your surroundings, even when they're familiar, is a hell of a relief,_ the elder male thought as he watched the heels of his socks disappear into the blackness. _But it won't replace checking on you before bed. That's part of __my__ routine for making sure that I remember that everything around me is always changing, including you. Trust me, I won't forget._ The idea that the teen was growing older and becoming more independent bothered him suddenly. _He's already doing it. He's already __done__ a lot of growing, a lot of changing, and yet I feel like he's the same boy I've known all this time. Does that mean I've been monitoring just right, so it's been a smooth transition, or does it mean that I haven't been watching enough? Shit. Well…I guess there's only one to know for sure,_ he concluded with a smile as he moved to the computers. _I'll just have to take a cue from my son and pay more attention to the details._

**Author's Note: The line 'even if you walk the same road a hundred times, you'll find something different each time' is from Gail Tsukiyama's novel 'The Samurai's Garden,' which is an amazing read.**


	7. Desire

**Author's Note: Here you are, lovely readers, the last segment of Causalities! My apologies for the gap between the last update and this one; I got taken up by Firework, but managed to have both inspiration and time last night. Happy reading!**

Bruce shut another book with an exasperated sigh and shoved it back into its place on the shelf. _I've either read all of these a dozen times, or they're terrible,_ he bemoaned as his eyes tripped along the shelves containing the mysteries he adored. _I __could__ read something else, but…I wanted a good whodunit. Something new, not something I can quote from memory the way I do Holmes. Damn it._ There were plenty of unsolved cases downstairs, he knew, but he was in the midst of one of his rare cravings to lose himself in a good story with his feet up, and he hated to let those moments pass him by.

"You look miserable," a familiar voice accused from the doorway. Whipping around, he found Dick watching him. "I would think you'd be in a better mood, considering. Unless," he raised an eyebrow, "Alfred failed to tell you that I have a week's vacation, and thought I'd spend it lounging around your pool and eating your food?"

"…He neglected to mention that," the billionaire bit back a grin. _A whole week? I'll take that._ "What about Bludhaven?"

"Ah, Bludhaven!" Dick exclaimed, coming fully into the library and sprawling out on a couch. "Bludhaven's down about a hundred and twenty nasties since last weekend. I think she's been bled enough that her remaining criminal elements will stay quiet for six or seven days, don't you? And if not, I'm only a couple hours away."

"Do I want to know what you had to do to nab that many by yourself in such a short amount of time?" he crossed his arms.

"Probably not."

"Then I won't ask." _Reckless,_ he shook his head silently. _Just like I was before I had a partner to watch out for. I wonder what Tim would say if I suggested he make himself present in Bludhaven more frequently…_

"So…what was the evil glare for?"

"Was I glaring?"

"…If Uncle Clark looked at a bookcase like that, he'd set it on fire."

"Quality quandary. Move your legs for a second." He sat when a space was cleared, accepting the limbs back once he was settled. "I wanted something new to read, but everything I haven't already memorized line for line is schlock."

"I assume we're talking strictly mysteries?" the younger man asked, knowing the elder's tastes.

"Correct." His fingers detected something under the jeans stretched across his lap. "…Is this a bandage?"

"Meh. You take out ten dozen baddies in the course of a work week, you get a little nicked up. It's just a graze. Don't worry about it."

"Mm." Unconvinced, he pushed the fabric up until he'd revealed the binding midway up his son's calf. "…Stitches?" he asked as he unwrapped the wound.

"Nah." Dick lay still, long used to having every injury he came home with checked by his surrogate father despite the fact that he was perfectly capable of performing his own first aid. "…Satisfied?" he teased.

"Not really. Is that _bone_?" he peered closely at it. "Jesus, Dick!"

"It's _not_ bone. I checked it. It's close, but there are technically a few layers of tissue between my shin and the air. Relax, it's fine. It doesn't even hurt that much anymore." _Of course, the Vicodin is a big part of that, but if I tell you I'm taking those you sure as hell won't let me come out on patrol with you this week. Since that's half the reason I'm here, I think I'll keep it to myself. _

"And I'll just bet you rode here with your leg like this, didn't you?"

"From Bludhaven to Gotham at nine on a Friday night in June? I wouldn't miss that ride for the world. Surprised you aren't out on patrol already, actually. It's a nice evening for knocking people out." _Ow,_ he refrained from flinching as Bruce re-secured the gauze around his leg.

"Tim made a less-than-subtle suggestion that my mental stability was at stake if I didn't take a night off. Robin's running alone this evening."

"…Was he right?"

"About what?"

"Did you need a night off?" It was possible, he supposed, that Bruce had merely been indulging Tim by letting him guard the city solo; it would certainly fit the more cautious approach to overbearingness that the billionaire was taking with his third son after having seen where his need for control got him with his first years before.

"…Maybe." It was more of an admission than he would have voiced to anyone else, and both knew it.

Dick sighed, crossing his arms behind his head and closing his eyes. "…Me, too."

They sat like that for a long while, not speaking, simply soaking in one another's presence. It had been a long time since they'd had a moment like this, uninterrupted, uncontentious, untroubled, and both savored it. "…Dick?" Bruce inquired finally, leaving off staring into the cold fireplace in favor of tilting his head back against the cushions.

"Hmm?"

"…Read any good mysteries lately?"

"The real ones, or the made-up ones?"

"I'll take what I can get."

"Got to raid a vivisectionist's house last month. As BPD, not Nightwing. That was…delightful."

"Sounds it. How was the chase?"

"Took ten detectives two weeks to put it all together."

"…If one of them was you, then that was a tough one."

"I wasn't just one of them; it was my team." A little grin slipped across his lips; he hadn't told anyone about his latest commendation and the subsequent rise in rank, mostly because what he'd done to get it could easily have gotten him killed, but he knew Bruce would be proud.

"…Another promotion?" _Two in the last twelve months. That's my boy._

"Yup." A light squeeze to his foot relayed the other man's pleasure at the news. "Thanks."

"You earned it, I'm sure."

"Heh. Let's just leave it at 'yes, I did,' okay?"

…_You scare me with things like that, chum. I hate it. At least if you transferred to GCPD I'd have a better idea of what I should be yelling at you for rushing into._ "Is that an attempt to give me a mystery to solve?" he half-jested, half-threatened.

"Nope. I think we'd both prefer it if that one remained unsolved on your end." _…I mean, my vest only took like five bullets, but you tend to freak out about things like that._ He winced slightly, remembering how sore he'd been for a week afterwards. He still bore faint bruises from that incident; they were, in fact, the main reason he'd been avoiding Gotham for the past couple of months. _Thank god for Kevlar. _"…You're really stuck on this whole 'nothing to read' thing, aren't you?"

"Evidently. Don't ask me why. I'm craving it, apparently."

"…Have you tried reading something else?"

"I don't _want_ to read anything else."

"Okay, okay. I'm good without the nine-year-old mode, thanks." _…I wonder,_ he mused, remembering something that had been sitting on his computer for a long time. _That might do the trick, but…no, I'd want to re-read it and do some editing first. Besides, I don't want to say something and then have it turn out to be awful._ He swung his legs off of the couch suddenly and sat up. "Are you going to be horribly offended if I go to bed at a normal-person hour?" he asked, acting sheepish.

"Not if you agree to lend a hand on a drug bust tomorrow night." A corner of his mouth tilted upwards.

"Robin coming along, too?" he asked hopefully.

"It's a three-man job."

"Excellent." _I love it when it's all three of us. I loved it with Jason, and I still do with Tim._ "See you in the morning. If I don't crawl into bed with you later on," he semi-joked. "I'm not too old for slumber parties, right?"

"…Vivisectionists always _have_ had that effect on you. And no, you aren't too old for slumber parties," he answered, giving him a look that indicated he shouldn't have felt the need to ask.

"Glad to hear it," he yawned. "Good luck with the mystery mystery."

"Thanks." _The 'mystery mystery'?_ he thought as the younger man disappeared into the hallway. _You and your language foibles._ He frowned. _…I miss them._

Safely ensconced in his old bedroom a few minutes later, Dick pulled his laptop from the bag he'd brought. _…I haven't read this in ages,_ he fretted as the machine ran through its boot up. _I hope it's as good as I thought it was when I was writing it…_

He'd started the file several years earlier, in what seemed like a different life. He and Bruce had still been at odds, barely speaking to one another; Jason had still been the little brother he loved, not the vengeful figure who had returned wearing his body; Nightwing had still been a newcomer, fighting to clean up a dirty city while also making it clear to the JLA that his skills hadn't been shed along with his Robin mantle. He'd needed a distraction, something to occupy himself during the hours when he simply couldn't go any longer without a break from crime fighting. Remembering his former mentor's addiction to a good fictional mystery and having plenty of ideas, he'd begun to write one of his own as a way to pass the time.

At first it had been a sort of peace offering in his mind, something that he could offer to the man someday to let him know that he'd been at the forefront of his former partner's thoughts even during the darkest days of their estrangement. Before long, however, he sank into the project, not only because he thought he had a good story going but because it was delightfully challenging to approach a crime from all the different angles. Deciding which characters would know what, when, and how they would react if they had been living, breathing creatures, turned into a high of sorts. His natural love of words was stoked, and he played with syntax and vocabulary like a child in a sandbox. Even when he went to bed turning a writer's block over in his head, he did so passionately.

The crafting of the story did its work to distract him, and as it had reached its conclusion so, too, had his quarrel with Bruce. Jason's end had come on the heels of that, and shortly thereafter he'd realized that Bludhaven had become a different place under his care. His position in the superhero community solidified along with his reputation in his chosen town, and suddenly he'd had so much to do that the story – finished, but still very rough, he believed – fell by the wayside. Now, opening it for the first time in over a year, he trembled slightly. _Please don't be garbage. I'm going to feel like a total idiot if I read this and it sounds like some angsty teenage diary…_ For all that he no longer needed to use the story as a bandage for his and Bruce's once-damaged relationship, he still wanted it to be good enough to submit to the older man's well-read and critical review.

…_Well,_ he sighed, _here goes nothing._

* * *

"…Hey," he stood in the entrance to Bruce's study a week later, a crisp bundle of papers practically clutched to his chest.

"Heading out?" the billionaire looked up, just a glimpse of unhappiness at the thought flashing across his features.

"Have to. I'm on duty in the morning. I'd stay and just ride back after patrol tonight, but it's a twelve hour shift. Frankly, Bludhaven needs Nightwing more than Gotham does, so…yeah," he shrugged, coming into the room and sitting down.

_Not true,_ Bruce kept to himself. "What's that?" he indicated the thick sheaf of printer paper in his son's hands.

"Aaahh…" he started, trailing off. "Well, I got kind of sick of listening to you bitch about having nothing to read all week," he tried to say lightly.

"…Oh?" It was true, he _had_ complained multiple times since the night of Dick's arrival about the ongoing dearth of good fictional mysteries accessible to him, and right when he was _really_ craving one, but he didn't see what that had to do with this.

"So…well, shit, Bruce, I wrote you one." Blushing, he tossed the manuscript onto the desk, the large metal clip holding it together clattering against the wood. "I hope it isn't trash. It probably is, but…I don't know, maybe give it a try if you…you know…have a few minutes."

The billionaire gaped at it for a moment. "…You wrote all this _this week_?"

"No! No," he shook his head. "That's about twelve months of work. You know, just between patrol and…other patrol," he half-grinned. "Anyway, I wrote it a while ago, more or less for you, and I just never _did_ anything with it. Then the other night when you mentioned that you couldn't find anything to read, I thought maybe I'd revisit it, clean it up a little. Um…I _think_ I drained your black ink cartridge printing it. So…sorry."

…_He wrote this…for __me__? _the billionaire marveled, running his thumb up one corner of the stack. _This is novel length, easily. _"Dick…" he said quietly, legitimately moved.

"Don't thank me until you read it," he stopped him. "Like I said, it's probably no good, but…anyway, let me know, huh? That way if it _is_ garbage I know not to waste my time with another one. On that note, if you don't like it, I don't expect you to force yourself through it. You, ah…you won't hurt my feelings any," he claimed as he stood up.

"You've never been good at lying to me, you know. Of course I'm going to read it all the way through. Especially if you…if you wrote it for _me._"

"I did," he ducked his head. "But…yeah. Anyway. Send me a text or something."

"You're coming home for the Fourth, right?" Bruce asked, brows knitting as he, too, rose.

"If I'm not on duty, yeah."

"…Okay." Coming around his desk, he pulled the younger man into a tight hug. "Be safe."

"You know me."

"…That's as good as a refusal, Dick," he frowned.

"Yeah, well…I do _try_, you know. It just doesn't usually work out."

"I know," he sighed. "I'm familiar with that problem myself."

"Damned inheritances."

Bruce chuckled, releasing him. "Get out of here. I've got a mystery to read."

"I'm going, I'm going. Love you," he tossed over his shoulder.

"…See you soon," he answered, watching him go before he turned back to the manuscript. A slow smile spread across his lips and rose into his eyes. _I've got a new mystery to read,_ he repeated contently. _Courtesy of my son. _"…Thanks, kiddo."

* * *

Late the following afternoon, Dick let himself into his apartment, stifling a yawn. _Sleep, then patrol. Sleep…bed…_ "Whoa!" he recoiled when he rounded the corner into the living room and found Bruce waiting on his couch. "What the _hell_?" While the billionaire did have his own key, he'd never before used it without being specifically asked to do so. _What is he doing here? Unless…_ A sense of dread unfurled in his stomach. "Oh, god, what's happened?" he gasped, drawing near. _Not Tim. Please, please don't say something's happened to Timmy. _

"Calm down," Bruce stood, grabbing his arm and pulling him down onto the couch as he noted his panic. "Relax. Dick, everyone's fine, I promise. Or at least they were when I left Gotham a few hours ago. I didn't mean to scare you by showing up like this, I just…wanted to talk to you."

"_Everyone_ was fine?" he asked pointedly. "Yourself included? Because I don't like the way this looks, you showing up here 'wanting to talk' when you just saw me for a week. What's going on?"

"I'm fine, Tim's fine, Alfred's fine. Everyone else that we both know is, to the best of my knowledge, also fine. The reason I couldn't talk to you about what I'm here to discuss," he explained, "is that I hadn't read it yet."

"…Huh?" he boggled, his tired brain trying to keep up. "Bruce, I'm confused," he admitted.

"I noticed. You didn't sleep last night, did you?"

"I couldn't," he shook his head. "Copycat vivisectionist. We know he's a copycat because we've _got_ the original guy, but…he's still a vivo, you know? I happened to catch him in the act last night on patrol, and…well…she didn't make it, the victim. I found out this morning that my guys were chasing him all last week while I was gone. Boy, were they pissed Nightwing got him before they did." He shook his head. "I feel kind of bad for them, but it was pure luck. Anyway, he's in jail, but…he got to two people before I could put him there."

"Better two than three, or four, or twenty," Bruce soothed, reaching over to grip his hand briefly. "Considering that you didn't even know there was a copycat out there when you came back last night, I'd say you did very well."

"Thanks," he sighed. "…So why exactly did I come home to find you in my living room, again?"

"Like you, I also got no rest last night, albeit for a much more pleasant reason."

"That being?"

"This," the billionaire nudged the manuscript on the coffee table with his foot.

"…Oh," Dick looked at it. "…It was so awful it gave you nightmares?" he asked, only partially joking.

"It was so good that I couldn't put it down, Dick."

He stared at him for a long second. "…Bruce, you're kidding me. It's…it can't be that good. Hell, _I_ wrote it, and the more I think about it the more I'm convinced it was a waste of time."

_Why do you do this? _the older man wondered miserably. _Why do you have these moments of low self-esteem? I've never understood that about you. You have every reason in the world to be proud of yourself and your accomplishments, and to be fair you generally are, but then you just backhand yourself out of the blue, like you're doing right now. Did I do something to make you like that? To make you doubt yourself? Because if I did…I'm sorry._ "Does the fact that I didn't go out on patrol make you reconsider that?"

"What, did you have food poisoning and that was the only thing in the bathroom with you?"

"Stop it," he said roughly, fed up. "Stop talking, and listen to me."

Dick blinked at him, then lowered his head. "Been a while since you pulled that tone on me," he commented. "But I'm listening."

"That," he pointed to the now well-thumbed packet, "was one of the best things I've ever read. You had me guessing right up until the end, chum, and before you ask, _yes_, I was trying to figure it out all the way through. I finished it at about three o'clock this morning, and do you know what I did after that?"

"…What?" he asked quietly, still not entirely believing it.

"I woke your brother up and made him read it."

"…Wait, _what_?" he straightened, looking puzzled.

"I got Tim out of bed, I handed him your story, and I told him to forget about going to school until he'd read it. To be honest, I wanted to know if he would figure it out sooner than I did," he confessed.

"…And? Did he?" _…Huh. He…he pulled Tim from school today, just to read what I wrote?_

"No, he figured it out on the same page that I did. But even after that point, Dick, it was a damn good read. Seeing all the little clues that you'd dropped along the way – including the false ones, which were clever enough that a couple of them got me – come together at the end to form the bigger picture…that was amazing. The best part, though, was that you showed how sometimes there are gaps in an investigation, questions that just plain can't ever be answered. What happened to Marguerite's body, in particular, and the way you demonstrated that that knowledge died with Carlton…that was _brilliant_. And I don't throw that word around, you know I don't. That," he jabbed his finger at the manuscript again, "should be on bookshelves other than my own. _That_ was written by a man who knows _exactly_ what he's talking about. _That_," his voice dropped, "made me so proud, Dick. I…I can't even tell you."

"…Really?" he breathed.

"_Yes._"

"…Oh. Um…" _…I made him proud,_ something happy flared in his stomach. _So proud, he actually felt like he had to tell me. _His hand traveled to the back of his neck, rubbing disconcertedly. "Wow. I…I didn't think…I mean…huh. So…Tim liked it, too, or…?"

"Tim got in trouble with Alfred for reading at the table because he refused to put it down on his second read-through. He said he liked it even better that time, because he knew where it was going and could slow down to appreciate everything _else_ about the story."

"Well now I feel like shit for getting him yelled at."

"Don't. As soon as I explained what it was, _Alfred_ wanted to read it. In fact, the only reason it's here now instead of glued to his hands is that I insisted that you have the final say."

"…'The final say'?" Dick repeated.

"Yeah. You didn't seem to think much of it when you gave it to me, and I figured that was only going to get worse in the interim, so…" He sat back and gave his son a hard look. "That's the only copy in existence, isn't it? Other than what's on your computer?"

"It is."

"Well…if you still think it was a waste, even after everything I've told you about how Tim and I feel about it, I wanted to give you the opportunity to…" he glanced at the manuscript longingly, "destroy it. I'd rather you didn't – I'd prefer you made a clean copy and mailed it off to an agent, or a publisher, or however that works – but it's your story. It's your choice."

"…Alfred would _kill_ me if I trashed it before he got to read it. Especially since you and Tim both did."

"Tim keeps texting me with new things he's connecting in his head. I've, uh…I've sent a fair share of my own realizations back." He leaned forward again, his face beseeching. "…It's _good_, Dick. I know you don't believe me, but…it's damn good."

"Bruce…I still don't think it's so hot, but…you and Tim have good taste, so if you both say it's worth keeping, then I guess…I guess it can stick around. I mean…technically it's _your_ story, anyway. I wrote it for you."

"…I know. Thank you," he said sincerely. "That was _exactly_ what I'd been looking for and unable to find."

"I'm just glad you liked it," he shrugged.

"Will you send it to someone who can take it to next step? I'm not suggesting that with an eye towards money, or fame, or any of that, for me or for you. I'd like to see that happen because it deserves to be read by a lot more people than just Tim, Alfred, and I. I think it will give a lot of people something to think about, along with the simple joy of a good story."

"I'll…think about it. I want to hear what Alfred says, first. And…maybe a couple of other people, too. Okay?"

"Sure," he nodded. "And Dick? One other thing?"

"What?"

"…You should keep writing," he said seriously.

"I…maybe I will. I don't know. We'll see." _Although something with vivisectionists could be fun,_ he mused suddenly._ Creepy as hell, but…interesting to write. Maybe, like, a vivisectionist cult…a ritual murder type thing. Set it in, I don't know, post-war New York. Give it kind of a noir feel, but with a modern edge. Throw in some Cold War politics, make it…make it almost a…why is he staring at me? _"…What?"

"…Did you just get an idea?" the billionaire asked, peering at him closely.

"Uh…maybe," he blushed, looking away.

"Don't tell me," Bruce held up his hands, barely biting back a grin. "I want it to be all new to me when you've got it ready." His expression darkened. "You _will_ keep using us as your test audience, right?"

Dick laughed at the insistence in the question. "I wouldn't trust anyone else to tell me if it sucked," he replied. "Except Wally, but…he's not quite the mystery fan that you and Tim are."

"Well, in that case," the billionaire rose, picking up the manuscript, "I'd better get this back to Gotham before Alfred comes after it himself. He was practically foaming at the mouth once he heard who'd written it," he smiled.

"You're all biased, you know. It'll probably _never_ get published," the younger man said as he, too, stood. "_If_ I even send it in. But…so long as you like it, that's all I really care about."

"Good," Bruce said brusquely, pulling him close. "…I hear about you taking too many risks with new ideas still rattling around in your head, and I'll chain you to your computer. Understood?"

"So when I run out of ideas…?"

"Don't," he growled, tightening his grasp. "Don't you dare." _Don't even think it._

"…Sorry" he whispered.

"I know." He pulled away, then looked at him for a long, silent moment. "…Give me a call next time you have a day off. I'll drive over and we can get lunch at that place you like with the curdled milk. What is it, Tibetan?"

"Kazakh," the younger man laughed. "And I wouldn't drag you somewhere I know you hate. We'll have Thai or something instead. Something we both like," he amended as they walked to the door.

"Fine. Thai, Chinese…something. We'll do something." He stepped into the hall, then paused. "…I'll see you soon, son."

"Yeah," Dick breathed. "See you soon…dad."

Bruce made a pleased little sound that he thought only he could hear, then walked away. Behind him, Dick watched, enjoying the lingering _hmph_ of happiness. When he couldn't see him anymore, he slowly shut the door. _…It's funny,_ he thought. _I'm not tired now. I was before I got home, but…_ He glanced to where his backpack sat, still packed from his trip home. _Maybe I'll sit down with my laptop for a little while. Just…just to see what happens._


End file.
